Avenge the Departed
by PippinStrange
Summary: Peter Parker goes undercover in the Vulture's crew for Captain America & Tony Stark. Bucky Barnes has been planted in the Avengers by Hydra. Deadpool stirs up trouble in the post-Ultron world. Shield has been compromised. No is safe, and Peter can't trust anyone. An MCU Retelling of The Departed film. Violence, language, angst, whump. SEQUEL ANNOUNCED and SNEAK PEAK posted!
1. Placing the Rats

Warning: language

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 **CHAPTER ONE - Placing the Rats**

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 **Ready to Comply -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

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I watch the boss pace back and forth. His body language proud, agitated. But it's not stress, he's preening. A god-damn parade.

"Placing you has been difficult," he says with a pointed look in my direction, calming eyes behind studious glasses giving me an appraising look. "It's not easy to put away the Winter Soldier and embrace domestic work."

"With all due respect," I say tightly, "How would you define domestic work?"

"I should think this would be obvious."

Alexander Pierce sits at his desk, the throne of his tiny kingdom. The view from the top floor from the Triskelion spreads like a map behind him, a mild D.C. smog smudging the bright cerulean sky. Seems like a good place to die.

"Hydra isn't what it used to be, you know this, right?"

I've been overseas for the last several years. I nod, only knowing what I've been told.

"So we adapt. Our coat of arms quote about growing two more heads isn't just about Hydra's superiority to SHIELD in numbers and networking. It's about evolution. Lose one thing, and change to make the old self better. Did I lose you yet?" Pierce chuckles and tugs off his glasses, rubbing at his temples. "Your days of global trotting to incite Cold War fears are done, my friend. It's time to come home. To Shield, to Hydra. One and the same."

"Two sides of the same coin," I infer.

"That's right," Pierce gives me an intriguing look. "If we bring you back to life from the ice, put you back in Shield and given a hero's welcome, how long do you think it would take for Captain America to recruit you for the Avengers?"

I hesitate. "Not long, sir."

Alexander Pierce sits back in his chair, and for the first time, loses one small ounce of poise. "Good," he murmurs, looking out the windows at the view. He clicks a pen in his hand.

Clicks it out, in. Out, in. Out and in.

"Good."

"Shall we get started?" I ask. My voice even, professional, clipped. My heart gone. Each time we do this, it chips a little bit more away.

"Yes," he says, and he looks back at me. Sets the pen down on the desk.

Says the words.

In Russian.

" _Longing, Rusted, Seventeen,_

 _Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign,_

 _Homecoming, One, Freight Car._

 _...Soldier?"_

It hurts. Physically. It's hard to explain how _mental_ pain becomes physical pain, but it does. Something like a heavy dizziness after a hard hit to the head. That fear that lingers post-impact, manifesting in heat, chill. Fevers and trembling muscles.

"Ready to comply," I respond.

My programming is different than it used to be. I've been practicing avoiding it for a long, long time. Trying to outwit or outdo the objectives given to me. Renewed, like a battery, by the trigger words in Russian and English. If I go for long enough without it, the weaker they become.

The more Bucky Barnes can come out of the shadows and try - even if it's just for a few minutes at a time - to speak, to _feel,_ to retain any part of a soul that I might have left.

Pierce begins to casually outline my basic duties - going domestic, he calls it - in order to become a member of the Avengers. Become friendly, trusted, and then indispensable. While their focus is turning inward to crime, it makes Hydra's underground operations that much harder to hide.

"What I wouldn't give for a god-damn alien invasion right about now," Pierce jokes.

No aliens to keep the heroes from flying the skies and making last-second decisions and focusing on saving the world. Now, their attention is clinging hard and fast to Hydra's groundskeeping - petty criminals that consider themselves street gods, weapons manufacturing, technological minds siphoning new data to the black market.

I'll be there to try and keep the Avenger's focus elsewhere. Or at least confuse their aim.

When the meeting is over, it's all I can do to keep from slamming the door.

I almost miss the days when he would wipe my memory after each mission.

It made my conscious sins less painful. When I do something horrible, and what's left of my own mind retains the guilt of it, it's difficult to cling to why I bother living in the first place.

But I've been down that road and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm a protected investment with small print.

It won't be long before my presence is realized. After the haircut, the shower, and a solid four hours of sleep, and practically a new identity… someone will put it together.

Someone will notice.

I decide to leave D.C. as quickly as possible.

All I want to do is see Steve.

I borrow one of the many company vehicles kept in the Triskelion garage. A black SUV.

I have a new driver's license. James Buchanan Barnes, it says. My old name. My real birthdate, too. It looks stupid.

When I finally arrive in New York four hours after my meeting with the boss, I decide to test it out on a local pub.

I slide into the bar and flick a peanut from the polished, dark counter stained with rings.

"What'll you have?" asks the bartender. "Maybe it's your lucky day."

Name tag; Jo. Red hair, approximately forty-seven. Maybe forty or fifty pounds overweight. Recently divorced, wedding ring tan hasn't faded, kids are in college, snapshots of graduation gowns tucked behind the cash register.

The man is slow, doesn't exercise much, easiest form of subversion, arm around the neck from behind - suffocation, too thick to reach behind him to -

 _Stop, Buck._

 _Stop stop stop stop stop._

"The strongest vodka you have, please," I respond.

I spent a lot of time in Russia. You lose the ability to taste beer on tap after you spy in Russia.

"Got an ID?" asks Jo.

I give him a doubtful look.

"Look, I gotta ask," Jo says apologetically. "You don't look a day over thirty, kid, but you do look like a cop or something. Just lemme see the ID."

I slide the card across the counter. He flicks at the corner, have difficulty picking if off the counter with his thick fingers. Finally, he holds the card to his eyes, holds it out a little farther, and then brings it back in with a squint.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

"Yeah, I know," I say resignedly, plucking the card out of his hand.

"You're the guy who got frozen with Captain America! You're the other super-fella!" Jo exclaims, mouth wide with astonishment. "You fought - you fought Nazis!"

"So they tell me," I say. It's my cover for coming back to the grid. Frozen back in 1945 and experts unable to dig out my body until now. Because it is apparently more believable than getting captured and tortured and brainwashed by Hydra, who would very much like to be left out of the narrative.

"Well, uh," Jo struggles. "Welcome home, soldier."

I look up at him. "Thanks."

"So you like strong vodka, huh?"

"Whatever you got is fine."

"I've got some here that smells like cake but tastes like shit. It'll melt your skin right off like a lizard after a few shots of these."

 _A chameleon,_ I think, _That's me._

The door clinks open with a small bell tone.

A man in an aviator's jacket with a feathered collar struts in, looking every year of the age _young_ fifty five. He's gray, balding, trim, and wiry. Maybe even muscular under the brown leather, it's difficult to tell. His sharp features and perfectly clean teeth give him a tailored, but dangerous, look. The type of guy you want to be friends with, badly. But maybe he beats the shit out of you when he gets drunk.

"Hey, Jo," says the man. "The usual for me, please, and thank you."

Jo ducks around like a man with a gun pointed to his head, fetching a very old looking bottle from beneath the counter. He seems to be in a hurry.

Fear from the newcomer, I think.

I take my shot. It burns like hell. Doesn't burn anything like Russia's though.

"You're uh, Pierce's new guy, right?" the man puts some cash on the counter for Jo. He turns to me in a friendly, but predatory, way. Jo slides his drink to him.

I slowly turn and look him up and down. "Who wants to know?"

"Jesus, relax, I know you're Pierce's guy because I'm one of Pierce's guys," the man chuckles and pulls out a few more bills, putting them on the counter. He takes a gulp of his scotch. "Pierce is a client."

"Is that so?" I ask flatly.

"Sorry, how rude of me. Toomes. My name is Adrian Toomes." He reaches out a hand to shake mine.

I look at his hand, and back at him, holding my gaze. Steel, ice.

I don't appreciate men overcompensating in conversation to try and win the room and place themselves subtly higher on a chain of command.

"Nevermind," Toomes slaps my shoulder, overly friendly. "Listen, Barnes, when was the last time you had a decent meal?"

There are very few things that surprise me, but this does. "I don't think about it."

"You probably had, like, what, an egg? Some toast? Whatever shit breakfast the Triskelion cafeteria gave you before you left?"

I allow him a nod. "Something like that."

Toomes jerks his head past the bar. "Jo, why don't you get him a burger and fries?"

Jo hesitates. "The, uh, diner side is closed," he gestures to the other side of the restaurant behind a large pair of swinging saloon doors with a NO MINORS PERMITTED facing the other way. I'm in the pub side, the other side is decidedly more… family friendly.

Toomes gives him a look.

"I'm sure I can find something," Jo falters.

"Not just a burger and fries," Toomes continues, "Make him something that keeps easy to go. Something reheatable. Yeah, that chowder from this afternoon's lunch special. Pack some up for him." He turns and looks at me, smiling strangely as Jo scribbles the order on a scrap paper.

"Thanks for lunch," I say shortly. I know he's doing it to gain a reaction and read me.

"Pierce is a good guy," Toomes says, "But sometimes he doesn't pay too close attention to detail. Such as his prize pony wasting away before his eyes." He turns back to Jo. "That last bit is on my other tab."

He pats the wad of money on the counter again. Jo takes the money and then rushes the order to the kitchen in the back.

At my look, Toomes smiles to explain. "What? You didn't realize Jo was a bookie?"

I didn't come in here to spy, I think. I came in here to get drunk. Which I can't, because being enhanced means my tolerance is too high.

But still, I am embarrassed I missed the signs. Even now, I'm not looking for them, but I am sure they are there. A "do not disturb" sign on a back-curtained room instead of "employees only", the sports channels on the corner TVs even though this is not a sports bar or a sports themed diner.

Jo's opening line for god's sake is telling a new customer he might get lucky instead of asking him what he wants to drink.

Toomes is acting like he's King of New York and Jo is scared of him but he has an ongoing tab - which means Toomes is probably protecting the neighborhood. Or at least, claiming to protect the resources of the neighborhood, while the actual neighborhood suffers.

Of course Jo's a damn bookie.

"I may have picked up a detail or two," I say dryly.

"Jo is a loyal customer," Toomes boasts. "My business keeps his business safe."

"And it's none of my business," I turn back to my drink. Hoping he leaves me alone.

"Therein lies the paradox," Toomes rests his elbows on the counter, refusing to grant me the space I clearly desire. "It is now."

"Is it?"

"Pierce wants us to work together on this. I'm the guy you're going to be, ah, shuffling information with." He grins like a devil. "Caw, caw, motherfucker."

"You're the Vulture," I realize, turning and looking at him fully.

Code name, Vulture, one of the most dangerous and criminally insane weapons and arms dealer on the east coast. He thrives on a little competition from other sellers, but for the most part, if he is crossed too far by his customers or other criminals, he simply makes a call, and they're killed mysteriously. His work is, maybe, just a cover for his bloodthirst.

A serial murderer with clean hands. Dozens of associates holding the murder weapons.

"We were supposed to meet tomorrow," I say dismissively.

"I had a feeling you'd find your way down here."

"You mean you had me followed."

"Hey, can you blame a guy? These are my streets. And I keep them running for people like Pierce." He jabs a finger into my shoulder. "Your boss."

I catch his finger smoothly in mine and bend it backwards, nearly breaking it, ignoring his shock and gasp in pain. I turn in my seat and then release him, shoving him off.

"I am well aware of whom I work for," I say, standing up out of the bar stool. "And I'm well aware of who you are. I won't get in your way, and you won't get in mine."

Adrian Toomes just chuckles in response, nursing his over-extended finger and running his tongue over his white, white teeth. "I like you," he says.

He finishes his drink and slams the glass back on the bar. Jo returns from the kitchen, gives him a nervous nod, before scooping it up quickly to dispose of in the bus bin at the end of the counter.

"You don't take any shit, even from me," Toomes says. "That says a lot about you. That means I can trust you." He takes a step for the door. "You know there's a saying out there - you can be for Hydra, or you can be for Shield. There is no in-between."

I don't like that saying. There has to be room for forgiveness. Somewhere.

"What I think is," Toomes begins to open the door, "When you're facing a loaded gun - what's the difference?" He then smiles, knowingly, like he just let me in on a big secret.

I don't answer. It's not that exciting.

"Now Barnes - let me put it this way - I'd rather be the one holding the gun," Toomes continues. "I think you would too."

He waves over his shoulder absently at a trembling Jo, and shuts the door with a clatter behind him.

Silence follows. I sit down at the bar again.

"I'll have about six more of these," I say to Jo, pushing my empty glass towards him.

A bus boy, likely about sixteen years old, comes out of the back kitchen bearing a huge plate with a burger and fries, and a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid of yesterday's chowder. He sets them on the counter before me and gives me a shy smile.

"Thanks," I say picking up a french fry. I've said it more than once today. That's a strange new record for me.

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* * *

 **Damage Control - _Adrian Toomes_**

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I don't want to be a product of my environment.

I want my environment to become a product of me.

My business tanked the day the Avengers came together to save the world from aliens. God damn aliens in giant flying caterpillars, which sounds like I'm making shit up. Though they were not quite as villainous as the stuck up pricks that saved us from them.

Our so-called heroes.

Bestman Salvage was destroyed by Tony Stark's collaborative project with the federal government called Damage Control. They sold the contract out from under us to clean up the city, benching us while an already-billionaire cleaned up with a guilty conscience and added the feel-good badge to his daddy-made pedigree.

Pretentious mother fuckers.

Those of us left to pick up the pieces learned real fast that no one will give you anything - you have to take what you want. So I took. It's the American way, really. Step in when the pitcher is down. They only have themselves to blame for people like me.

My company had the brains and the brawn already. Even a couple of useless engineering and chemistry degrees who couldn't find a job doing science shit and found their way into descrontuction with me. I was able to put them to real use.

Combined with the repurposed alien technology in weapons dealings, we made connections we never would have thought possible. Before I even knew what a fucking treasure cove I had created, we were signing our first deal to sell high-level technology for the Hydra operatives in Germany, Argentina, China.

Then eventually, Wakanda.

It's a surprisingly lucrative third world country. We gained more material than ten Chitauri invasions; nothing like what we get digging through the New York sewers.

I built a kingdom. I will put a bullet in the brain of anyone who stands in my way.

I am the type of guy who could manufacture the type of bullet that could pierce the hide of the incredible Hulk himself when no others can. I could build a staff that absorbs the lightning strikes directly from the god of thunder. I have the capabilities and the means to make the world that I want.

I don't take kindly to judgment and interference.

Though, sometimes, I appreciate it when my buyers send in a little help as a token of their appreciation. I already have the firepower - sometimes I just need good spies.

...

* * *

 **Undercover Recruitment - _Steve Rogers_**

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...

The new recruit steps into the office, sharp brown eyes taking in the entire office with a single glance, hastily walking to the edge of my desk and throwing his arms behind his back.

He pays particular attention to me, and what I would consider respectful because of my background. He could have easily sat down right away, only extending a hand after the interview. But he doesn't. He's standing at attention like a young soldier.

He doesn't look a day over sixteen.

"You can sit," I say, trying to put him at ease. He hesitates only a moment before

dropping into the chair beside him.

"How old are you, son?" I ask. His age is on the application, but...

"Eighteen," he replies. His voice has a strange rasp to it - either puberty has not fully caught up, or he didn't get enough sleep last night. My money's on both. His eyes flick over to my… co-worker.

"Graduated with honors in everything, Mr. Parker?" I open his file and skim the numbers. "Took every possible available class with the Shield recruitment program."

"Just graduated!" he replies.

"But that wasn't enough for you."

"I'm not really a..." Peter Parker takes his time, thinking about his answer. "It was my dream to become an Avenger someday, Ca - Captain, sir."

"How much do you know about the daily grunt work for an Avenger?"

"Maybe… not from an insider's perspective," Peter answers. "But I know who you are." He tugs on his jacket sleeves as if to keep himself from interrupting further. "I mean - you're pretty… well-known."

"Do they still call him Captain Fucking America?" asks my partner, a roguish grin on his face. The man wields his horrifically scarred, rather shocking appearance like a weapon itself.

Misplaced lipstick applied to an asshole, though I'd never say so out loud.

Unlike some, I actually know how to speak in civilized society.

"It's a good thing you retired," he continues, "America's plenty fucked without you."

Peter's eyes widen slightly.

"This… colorful individual is, technically, my partner, Wade Wilson," I introduce with a sigh. "You'll have to ignore his - uh - commentary. For now."

"We're not really partners," Wade wags his finger between us. "We just work together. Sometimes he cooks for me."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Tony Stark was very obviously my first choice, and then Sam Wilson. As it turned out, Sam Wilson preferred overseeing ground operations, and Tony Stark secluded himself to the science and manufacturing division only.

When it came to someone having your back in battle, the strangely obvious choice was the mercenary who can't die. It's nice to have a partner that will throw himself in front of any bullet for you because he knows he can just bounce right back in a few minutes.

I slap the folder shut. "Tell me," I say to Peter, "When it comes to why you're in this office - and the age old question, what do you want to be when you grow up - how do those two align?"

"Um, that's a good question, Captain Rogers, sir," Peter hesitates.

Wade steps forward and sitting on the edge of the desk. "You will address him as Captain Fucking America!"

"You don't have to call me that," I interrupt quickly. "Just Captain will do."

"Yes, Captain," Peter sits up straighter in his chair. "To answer your question. When I was a kid I always admired heroes."

Wade blows a raspberry with his tongue, unimpressed.

"When I… when I changed, gained powers," Peter continues firmly, not allowing himself to be interrupted. "I knew I could actually become one. I wanted - want, to do that. Defend… the little guy."

Wade's eyes glint at the past tense. "Wanted, huh? Wanted to become an Avenger and just march your pansy ass down to this office and meet your god-damn heroes and join the club of spandex and iron-plating and just whoop-di-fucking archery? Is that what you wanted?"

"Maybe not the archery part," Peter replies with a smile.

Wade's eyes narrow. He's not used to anyone trying to have a sense of humor in his presence. "So you agree on having a pansy ass?"

"I'm afraid Wade Wilson has a style all his own," I give the kid a calming smile. "I'm afraid we all just have to deal with it."

"Look, Tiny Tim," Wade moves in front of my eyeline and sits on the front of my desk, leaning over the kid. "Let's talk business. Tell us about your Uncle Ben."

One could hear a pin drop.

I give Wade a tap on the arm to make him move. He scoots aside, though begrudgingly.

"Um… my Uncle Ben," Peter says confusedly, "He was a mechanic. Fixed cars; sometimes for nothing. He was… really good like that."

"Your Uncle Ben was a fucking Shield informant on small town criminals working their way up the ranks to get noticed by the bigger bads," Wade insists, frowning.

"A Shield informant?" Peter lets out a short laugh of surprise. "No - no he wasn't!"

"He was," I say.

Peter looks at me, his mouth falling open. "You're - you're joking."

"Here's an example. If disgruntled POCs were approached by Killmonger's agents, your Uncle Benny went crying to Shield operatives and boohooed the whole thing," Wade says. "Then they made a long-distance phone call, and his Royal Highness of the People's Hidden Paradise of Wakanda was able to swoop in and save their souls. Thanks to Uncle Benny's fat mouth."

Peter does not answer this, but he appears to bite back words of protest.

"I was sorry I was unable to attend the funeral at the time," I interrupt. Wade's no idiot, but he can be cruel when he doesn't stop and think first. "I didn't want to draw attention to your family and place you, or your aunt, in any kind of danger. But what your uncle did, between his own work, ended up becoming quite valuable to us too."

"In what way?" Peter asks. There's a flinch under his cheekbones, clenching teeth, or rapid swallowing, I can't tell. I think this is truly the first time he's ever been told about his Uncle's second job. Even had a hint of it.

"He was associated with criminals, befriended them," I explain. "Those free jobs? Those were for criminal syndicates. Mobs. Hydra. You name it, he helped."

"No, no, people in poverty who couldn't afford it, to be kind," Peter interjects, his voice rising slightly. "He was… was charitable."

"Yes, true," I say, holding up a hand. "AND he helped the men who didn't pay for the work because they'd rather put a bullet through someone's head than come by anything honestly. Your uncle knew them all. Cared for them. And then secretly funneled information to Shield and was never caught."

"Never?" Peter repeats.

I shake my head. "His murder did not tie to a single case that he ever informed on. It was a fluke. A coincidence."

"His reputation is as pure as Mother Theresa," Wade adds. "Even on her kinkiest days."

Peter sits back, taking in the new information. Chewing it over.

"Did you ever talk to anybody at Shield about your blender-brained uncle?" Wade asks.

Peter is the perfect picture of containing emotions. "No?" he says shortly.

"Ever pass along the sob story to friends of yours?"

"I would have to have friends, wouldn't I?"

"Your childhood friend, Ned Leeds," I say, checking the name in his file again. "You've remained close? All these years?"

"Yeah," Peter says. The mention of Ned's name brings a small spark of life to his eye. "But, uh, he's going to the California Institute of Technology right now. We don't get to talk as much."

"You on social media?" I ask.

"No. Just texting."

"Those Spider-Man YouTube accounts shut down?" Wade adds.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Wilson. Yes. I soon as I realized I couldn't hide my IP."

"You've come out of the superhero closet to how many people exactly?" Wade asks.

Peter counts on his fingers. "Um. My Aunt. Ned. Uh… you guys?"

I look down at his original letter that he sent to us. "So when you sent this letter initially, and offered up Spider-Man as a new member of the Avengers - this was the first time you had really told any stranger you were moonlighting as a masked hero?"

"I've been really good at keeping my secret, I think," Peter hesitates. "Never told anyone at Shield either."

"So no one at Shield knew?" Wade pushes. "Ever?"

"No, they don't."

"It all changes when one signs the Accords, doesn't it?" I ask quietly.

Peter nods, looking down at his hands. "Yeah."

"Going public is a huge step. Necessary as a legal adult."

"So the law says," Peter agrees, though maybe in words only.

"The UN says you belong to them," I say. "I say different."

His eyes widen. "Wait - what?"

"I say you don't sign yet. Not like you're supposed to when you join an operation like this. I say you're my guy instead."

Peter blinks in astonishment. "Not… sign? NOT sign the Accords? You're joking."

I shake my head.

"You're not joking," he realizes. "Um. Okay. So. Not - not sign. Uh. Isn't that illegal?"

"Not if we call it… an unaffordable delay. Instead of denying it completely. Maybe consider signing it later. After you're done here," I pick up a blue folder and hand it across to him. Peter takes it carefully, flipping it open and scanning over the first page. "I think you can do something… different. Something no other Avenger can do."

"It all depends on how fucked up you are," Wade adds. "Or how fucked you want to be?"

Peter looks up from the folder. "You want me to go undercover? Like… an Agent of Shield?"

"Not through SHIELD," I explain. "This would be… different. It would be for the Avengers and the Avengers alone."

"Only some of them, though, right?" Peter infers, looking back at the folder. "Half of them didn't support the Accords anyway. If I don't sign, I don't want Mr. Stark and the other loyalists to come chasing me down like a rogue when I'm trying to do a mission from you… "

"That's A-plus-plus-plus, Hermione, for your research," Wade congratulates. "You get a gold star on your fridge."

"The Avengers need someone to get involved with a local criminal syndicate who supplies to Hydra operatives," I tell him. "Someone who has not signed yet. Which means none of us qualify. Even the ones who hesitated signed eventually."

"Like you," Peter says.

"Yes, like me," I answer. "You haven't been unmasked. You took the schooling as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. You haven't signed the Accords. On an ideal checklist, you hit every mark."

"You're a fucking ghost," Wade adds. "You could become literally anyone. Except a Kardashian. They'd see right through it."

"Let's talk about your family," I try to guide the conversation. "Your Aunt May. Still living here in New York?"

"Yes?" Peter says, looking worried by the question. "Of course she is!"

"Your parents were double agents and murdered by the Finisher, one of Red Skull's agents," I summarize. "May has a step-mom living in Sacramento, grandparents and cousins in Italy. You have no siblings and no other cousins. Your parent's families are long dead. Am I correct so far?"

"Um… yes…"

"You were kind of a player already, weren't you?" Wade bends down and analyzes Peter with uncomfortable closeness. "Going to that fancy-fuck Midtown High Science school, going home to Little Italy every night, and then advanced classes at the Triskelion to fulfill the wet dream of being Avenger-Boy?"

Peter does grit his teeth this time, visibly. "Maybe? I guess. So...?"

"You had different accents too, didn't you, like a snake!"

Peter shakes his head, fighting a smile. "Snakes don't talk in real life."

Smart ass, too. I like it. Maybe someone who will, eventually, remind Wade that he does not hold all the cards on having a sense of humor. "It's okay to answer the question," I say kindly. "He doesn't actually bite."

"Sort of?" Peter says. "I didn't do it on purpose. I just wanted to fit in - blend in."

"So you were speaking with a proper New England accent," Wade continues, "Then at home with Hot-Mama, you're the boy from Queens, tripling every 'YEAH' and leaving the Ls and the Rs out of 'all right?"

"Uhhh… so what's your point, exactly?" Peter asks. "Sorry, I don't see what… I wasn't being intentionally dishonest."

"So you're feeling AIGHT in Queens in some run-down apartment," Wade goes on, clearly enjoying himself, "...and then you start going to classes at the Triskelion down in D.C. and suddenly you're this shy nerd with - fuck! You wore GLASSES, didn't you? Playing the part up! I would bet a hundred dollars right now every freakin' Saturday you showed up for a three hour course to earn those extra credits, you slipped on a pair of Warby Parkers before getting off the bus. True?"

Peter gives in. "Okay, okay! Yes! I wore glasses in D.C. But I can't afford Warby Parkers. I used to get mine at the pharmacy. I'm sure there's security footage. I just don't see what the point of this is."

"You haven't needed glasses since you got your powers," I say. "Just wore the old pair because they were comfortable. More you. True?"

Peter nods.

"So you go marching into the Shield academy for homeschoolers like Clark Ding-Dong Kent with your glasses," continues Wade, "and a northeastern accent for the other nerds, and go through all the classes without making any friends, that's right?"

"I'm - I'm confused," Peter hesitates. "Are you a psychiatrist? Is this a test?"

"I'm going to be your best god-damn friend in the whole fucking world," Wade finishes, satisfied at last. "So why the fuck are you playing this game and trying on other people for size like some sort of emotional Ed Gein? Huh?"

Peter shakes his head. "I don't think I realized I was doing it. Not really. But I was anxious and freaked out by doing something new… which meant I had to do it any way."

"Really?" I ask. "Why's that?"

"I mean, I knew what I needed to do to get where I wanted to be, even though it was new and scary…" He turns slightly pink. "Because courage isn't the absence of fear, but triumph over it. My uncle used to quote that to me."

"Who said that?" I ask curiously.

"Nelson Mandela," Peter answers.

"What's the matter, smartass?" Wade asks. "Don't you know any fucking Shakespeare?"

"We have a question for you," I say with a tired sigh. "Do you want to be an Avenger and sign the Accords, or do you want to appear to be no one at all and just do some good in this world?"

Peter hesitates to answer. "Um…"

"It's an honest question," I add. "Some people just want to be heroes because of what they see on TV. Some are afraid of the work. Some actually want the work, but don't want the lack of anonymity. Glory comes with a name-tag now."

"Some people just like to fuck up and blame tragic backstory," Wade grins. "I've been known on occasion to partake."

"Oh, so that's what made you so charming..." Peter mutters.

"What the FUCK did you just say to me?" Wade stands and takes three long, powerful strides right up to his chair.

"I'm sorry, I didn't…" Peter gulps. "I was… joking… I'm sorry. It was mean. Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain. You make me nervous and when I'm nervous - my one liners are not great. They could be better. I should stop talking now. Sorry."

"Wilson," I say firmly. "Give me a moment, will you?"

Wade steps back, crossing his arms over his chest and pretending to pout.

"Go ahead," I say.

"To answer your question honestly," Peter says, "I would rather keep my anonymity. For as long as possible. If there was a way to be an Avenger anonymously, that's the choice I would pick, but I can't. Because of the Accords. So… for now… I guess I don't mind not signing the Accords… as long as I'm still helping."

"It would definitely help us," I assure.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" Peter uses both hands to grip the blue folder. I sense agreement from him, the careful consideration of the cost, the potential.

"We deal with deceptions here," I say carefully. "You will… essentially… disappear. You'll report to Wade Wilson and myself - no one else will ever know you ever sat in this chair and changed course under our direction. We hope you'll be able to get us intel on how deep Hydra's corruption is…"

He nods. He'd probably seen certain personalities in school, avoided them.

"Luckily you've already attended school with one of the most corrupt Shield locations of them all. The Triskelion is ripe for churning out Hydra graduates as fast as they do Shield agents. The Hydra kids go straight to Germany for a little brainwashing, usually. The ones who try the recruitment program and still feel the call of the straight and narrow move on to the Shield Academy. You did neither, which makes you easier to place. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

He nods, firmly now. "Yes."

"We're going to get you into some street crime. These guys make their money from Hydra clients," I say, "If we try to get you in directly with Hydra to work backwards and find their connections within Shield, they'll sense the infiltration all too easily," I raise my eyebrows at him. "Unfortunately there is one particular weapons manufacturing group that we need to take down. Honestly, without the Accords, we would be able to just fly into their lair and kill or arrest them all if we wanted to. Now there's red tape."

"So the law isn't letting you arrest criminals?"

"Oh, we can stop them from conducting illegal transactions. Rough them up a little. Capture their workers and deliver them to Shield or the CIA or something. But we can't make that call for arrest, imprisonment. They're owed due cause same as anyone else. Yet it always stops there."

"How?" Peter asks.

I shrug. "That's the question. Our work is constantly being undone by sanctions, and the most dangerous criminals in New York are allowed to walk time and time again. There's a hole somewhere that needs fixing. I hope you may be able to get us the information we need to do so."

"The weapons manufacturing," Peter asks. "It's not just ordinary stuff, is it?"

"The Vulture crime syndicate is the worst we've ever encountered. They salvage, buy, uncover and collect technology beyond human capability and use their tech smarts to upgrade man-made weapons with it. Pieces of Ultron, alien metals… you name it, they've found it, replicated it, upsaled it."

"They take human guns," Wade adds, "And make them sexier."

"May I ask how I… how I'm supposed to work this like a job when I'm pretending to be a criminal?" Peter asks shyly. "I don't have… a lot of money."

"You'll be given a cash income to support yourself. And when this case is closed, a heroes welcome when it's all done and a place among the Avengers."

Peter's chin rises. "So when do I start?"

Wade and I glance at each other.

"Today, if you can," I say. "You just graduated. Maybe you are… disgruntled with the world, a lost cause. Came here disappointed."

"Off your meds," Wade adds.

Peter blinks. "Yeah, okay. I could see that."

"You came to the tower today for a job interview and didn't get the job you want. There's an incident and after you've been subdued, you're arrested," I hesitate. "You'll plead guilty to three charges of assault and attempted murder here at the facility."

Peter takes a deep, painful breath.

"Is that Aunt going to be a problem?" Wade asks cattily.

Peter shakes his head swiftly. "I'll make it believable enough. Leave her out of this."

"There's not an easy way to make your cover real," I say kindly. "We'll move her upstate for her protection."

"I know of a castle upstate with a lot of empty rooms," Wade says. "And no budget to fill them!"

"You'll be incarcerated for about three weeks and released when another known criminal posts your bail," I continue. "The charges will be dropped by the prosecutor already in Hydra's pocket. Luckily no one but Wade and myself read your personal letter revealing your identity as Spider-Man."

He nods, eyes huge.

"Keeping your powers secret from our enemies will be crucial. You will need to look like a non-enhanced, disgruntled Shield wannabe with nothing to lose and all the training that makes Vulture want you. This will make you noticeable as someone worth noticing."

Peter is nodding more frequently. "I understand. How do I get in with Vulture after I'm released? When the bail is posted, would this other criminal be able to show me around? Show me where to 'accidentally' run into them and introduce myself?"

Wade is secretly pleased by his attention to detail.

"During the war," I say, "Churchill used river mines. He'd float them down the rivers into Germany. They'd either hit something, or not. That's what we'll use you for. I'll float you down the river. The rest will happen. Or it won't…"

Wade sighs. "What Father Time is trying to say, YES, your bailer will get you connected with local dealers to see what sticks."

"It has to happen organically," I add.

"Yessir," Peter's mind looks like it's racing a million thoughts a minute.

"Can you do it?" I ask.

"Don't let us down, sugarbear," Wade intones. "We need you."

Peter loses his frightened, graduate's-first-job-interview look. He straightens himself in his chair, clenches his teeth. His cheeks bulge slightly the way bigger, and more frightening men, often contain an anger problem just before beating the shit out of someone.

He levels his stare at the both of us. "So," he says cheerfully. Practicing the look of a criminal already, and succeeding. "Which one of you do I get to beat up to get arrested?"

Definitely the type of guy who smiles for his mugshot.

I like this kid.

"Nice try, popstar," Wade picks up a desktop phone to make a call. "We're going to send you in quietly, but not before dropping some gold nuggets to the press."

"You're going to be a hero, Peter Parker," I say, standing to shake his hand.

He clasps it firmly. "Thank you, Captain America, Sir."

"Hey, that's Captain FUCKING America," Wade reminds, suddenly realizing whomever is one the other line has answered maybe a half second too soon. "Oh, hello, yes," he says way too sweetly. "Daily Bugle? Hello, YES, this is the the Avengers Tower in downtown Manhattan, I have a press release that I'd like to give you privately before I tweet it." He winks at us, his voice affecting a feminine pitch. "We've had a terrible incident befall us today; luckily no one was killed."

Peter edges towards the door. "Where do I go from here?" he mouths in my direction.

I give him a sad smile and pop a button under my desk, the bookcase at the far corner sliding to the left to reveal an elevator door. "Nowhere pleasant, son," I grimace. "Are you ready?"

Peter straightens his shoulders. "I'm ready."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Please leave a review and let me know what you think so far! :)**

* * *

 **Author's Note**

 **This little book is truly a labor of love and a fevered frenzy of random fandom musings. I watched the Departed for the millionth time on Netflix and noticed Dignam's character (Mark Wahlberg) was like the Deadpool of the Boston cop world. And then I just couldn't shake the idea of Deadpool and Captain America interviewing Peter Parker together instead of Leo DiCaprio. And then I thought about how Bucky Barnes's Hydra ties reminds me of Matt Damon's character. And it all went downhill from there. I downloaded a PDF of the script online and began, line by line, translating the movie dialogue into scenes into the MCU. That's 153 pages of script, and over 330 pages (so far) of this book. It took on a life of it's own, and the third act definitely departs (ha, ha) from the ending of the movie. You may be happy to hear that it ends differently. Many people were upset with the ending of the movie originally ;)**

 **The book is finished, (I am writing the epilogue currently) and will be posted/updated very regularly, probably every week, maybe twice a week. If you haven't seen the movie, it's definitely an amazing movie, but it is rated R so bear that in mind. If you think MY story has a lot of adult content, I definitely cut out a LOT of random crap. You will NOT find any prostitutes covered in cocaine in my book. If you haven't seen the movie, feel free to watch it first. But you don't have to see it first to enjoy this story. You can read this first, and then if you want, go back and watch the movie and have fun picking out the scenes or lines that were quoted directly. But just be prepared for that shocker ending, man. It's a big one.**

 **If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving a review!**


	2. Infiltration

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* * *

 **Rating for this chapter: T plus, borderline M for Deadpool's innuendos and language**

* * *

...

...

 **CHAPTER TWO - Infiltration**

…

…

* * *

 **Ex Con Road Trip -** _ **Scott Lang**_

* * *

...

It takes several minutes before the kid is finally let out of the joint. He looks like he's swimming in the clothes he was arrested in, a black jacket and jeans, shoes scuffed and worn, cheekbones taut. I'm guessing he didn't eat much.

He looks suspiciously at me waiting by the electric gate, sliding back into place behind him. I notice the flinch in his shoulders when it clatters shut, and the guard that let him out glares daggers at us both.

"Peter Parker," I greet, holding out a hand. "Scott Lang. Nice to meet you."

"Uh - thanks," he says, shaking my hand back. "Who are you exactly?"

"I posted your bail," I say. "I guess that makes me your sugar daddy."

He blinks. "I don't need a sugar daddy."

"I'm joking!" I laugh, grasping both of his shoulders and giving him a little shake. "Ease up! Whew, you're like, really skinny but oddly muscular under that secondhand jacket of yours? Wow. Work out a lot the last few weeks?"

"Yes, I did," Peter squirms out of my hold. "So you posted my bail but I still gotta go back for court in a few weeks so I don't know what the big deal is, or why a total stranger is here to…"

"Charges dropped," I tell him, and he's not surprised. At all. "You already knew that."

"Nope," he shakes his head. "Didn't… know that at all."

"Look, kid," I say, opening the side of the van. "You're going to have to get better at this part of the job to do what you do. Okay?"

"What part?" he asks suspiciously.

"The lying part. You probably know someone, somewhere along the line paid someone else off. Charges dropped and suddenly me - working in security camera installation - has several thousand bucks to post your bail? Come on."

Peter looks into the van carefully. "Hm."

"That's Luis," I say.

Peter nods in greeting at Luis waiting in the front seat. "Hey."

"Ey!" Luis grins at him. "Welcome back to freedom, la cucaracha!"

Peter gives him a strange look, and then gets in the van. I slide the door shut and hop into the passenger seat.

"So who are you guys?" he asks.

"I'm Luis, this is Scott," says Luis.

"I got that part," Peter replies. "I mean, WHO are you?"

I turn around in my seat and give him a smile. "We are your connections. Don't get too excited. We're the nice guys. But you aren't going to be working with nice guys."

"Ah," Peter replies, looking out the window at the passing landscape. It's a very hot day. The van has no A/C.

I unroll the windows. "Luis, let's make a stop."

Luis nods. "Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"Definitely. It's too hot."

"I could really go for a murder spree right now," Luis agrees.

Peter's expression twists, and his head jerks back towards us. "What?" he asks.

Fourteen minutes later, we're at the drive thru.

"I would like three extra large murder sprees please," Luis leans his head out of the window. "Extra LARGE. Yeah, uh, GRANDE? Hello? Yes. Gracias!"

Peter looks like he's about to pop a cork when I hand him back the newest Dairy Queen speciality blizzard.

"You couldn't just say ice cream," he mutters.

"You're welcome," I reply.

"Thank you," he adds hastily.

"All riiiighty," I look at my watch. "We got some time. You wana make another stop?"

"Thai food?" Luis asks hopefully.

"Yeah, no," I blink. Since when has he ever liked Thai food? "The Parker residence."

Peter practically spits out a mouthful of chocolate back into his paper cup. "Wait, what?"

"Last stop before hell, Pete," I say. "You'll want to pack up some of your stuff. Kiss May goodbye. You know. We weren't really supposed to deviate from the itinerary, but…"

"Breaking the rules, you know?" Luis chimes in. "It's sort of what we do."

Peter nods. "Wow, uh, yes. Yeah. Thank you. That would be great."

"Cap is moving her upstate in a few days," I explain. "So she'll be safe. But you won't be able to contact her. We weren't supposed to tell you…"

"We weren't? Isn't that like, bad?" Luis questions. "I mean, bro, I don't know what you're thinkin' exactly, but making Captain America mad wasn't really something I wanted to like, do, y' know?"

I hold out my hands in a guilty expression. "Listen. I just know how hard it is to be doing the whole separated-from-your-loved-ones thing because of the life of crime, okay? Before he gets into this mess, I just," I turn back in my seat and give Peter a knowing expression. "You gotta remember who we do this stuff for. It'll keep you going later. Right?"

"Right," Peter murmurs. "Right."

"And the way I look at it is this," I sigh. "The Avengers are, like, the coolest freakin' guys in the universe, right? They're, totally awesome. But they don't really get, you know, what it's actually like on the other side. Doing time. That sort of thing. We do."

"Yeah, yeah, we do," Luis agrees.

"So it would be _weird_ for you to get out of prison and not immediately go to your Aunt's place. Even if you're just there for a quick shower and asking for cash money before she kicks you out. You know? When someone gets out, they usually go right home."

"Riiiight home, even if no one is home," Luis adds.

"If you didn't, it would look weird. If someone looks at you really closely, like really checks out all your movements before now, they might notice. If a few strangers just picked you up from _prison_ and took you right into a criminal deal to make friends… how desperate does that look? We have to at least look like family friends helping you get back on your feet, trying to find you a job. Otherwise it's weird."

"Pretty weird!" Luis says in a sing song voice.

"I got this," I say to Luis. "This repeating thing? It's uh, it's gotta stop."

"Just emphasizing," Luis protests.

"Anyway," I continue, "It makes way more sense that your Aunt sent us to pick you up and give you a ride. You'll have a few minutes and then we go from there. It might make sense she moves after that, not wanting to be in the same town as her no-good, post-bail nephew."

"This is all like, part of the cover, you know?" Luis says. "A good cover."

"God is in the details," Peter says.

"I thought the quote was the devil is in the details," Luis says confusedly.

"Maybe they share the space," I snap.

"Oooooh, I like that!" Luis taps the steering wheel excitedly. "It's like, a perfect metaphor, you know? God and devil in the details together! Mutually cohabitating! It's like representing the spy for Avenging going into the Hydrating instead!"

I tilt my head. "Did that actually make any sense in your brain or are you just saying random words?"

"Made perfect sense to me," Luis replies. "Try to keep up. I'm literate and shit."

I like he means literary.

Peter starts to laugh, but then he catches himself. He rolls his window back up, and silence falls in the van. He starts practicing angry facial expressions in the tinted reflection. When they look insincere, he sighs tiredly.

My god. I really hope this kid does not die on his first day.

...

* * *

 **Blackmail -** _ **Wade Wilson**_

* * *

...

I watch the slow, spiraling decline of my patience and internal goodness over a three week period. Like slow-motion dashcam footage of car crashes in Russia that are oddly popular on YouTube.

Let me summarize for you bitches.

Three weeks ago, James Buchanan Barnes was discovered buried in the wreckage of Captain America's previous tomb. Lo and behold, when the corpse was unfrozen, he woke right up, according to the report.

After a brief stint in the hospital and then declared in perfect, young health, he requested to be put right back to work for the war - only to find out the war against Nazi Germany was over and he was just a couple of years too late.

Next best thing? Marches his white-ass over to Shield and gets recruited immediately. After that, he impresses his superiors with admirable intelligence somewhere between Neil Degrasse Tyson and my left testicle.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

"You're too smart for Shield!"

"Yes, sir, I know!"

"You'll get more pussy if you join the Avengers!"

"Yes, sir, I know, sir!"

"Have a golden ticket inside this suspiciously large chocolate candy bar!"

"Thank you, sir!"

I didn't see the reunion between Rogers and Barnes, but it's not hard to imagine the conversation here, either.

"Bucky!"

"Steve!"

"Bucky!"

"STEVE!"

"I have a lot to catch you up on!"

"Yes, but first, what happened to the drinking fountains?!"

All right, so maybe the conversation did not immediately start with an explanation of the Civil Rights movement.

All I know is it took an obscenely short amount of time for Captain to call a meeting.

The meeting meant myself, Tony Stark, Le Capitan, and Buck Buck sat in a room and determined his place among the team.

Let's fast forward to the juicy part.

"So," Steve sits back in his chair after a long-winded speech about patriotism and probably his dead mom or something. I wasn't really listening.

"We've discussed this at length and would like to put the question to you. Are you interested in becoming a member of the Avengers?"

Barnes gives us one solitary nod. "Yes," he says. "If you'll have me."

"I'm a licensed minister," I exclaim.

Barnes looks a little confused, but doesn't ask what I mean.

"You'll be on a trial run," Tony twists his office chair from side to side. "We're not in the habit of just handing out positions on the team like candy…"

"But you have the golden ticket," I add.

"Understood," Barnes agrees with Tony, doesn't give me a second glance. Weird. Usually I get a lot of glances. Lustful ones.

"Getting shot down in World War Two and then iced for a few decades does not Avenger make," I snort. "Unless you're the Captain."

"Look," Steve says quickly. "We all trust you."

Tony makes an audible _hmph_ sound.

"They trust you because I trust you," Steve continues, sending a frustrated look in Tony's direction. "I want you on this team. You were invaluable to the freedom of America then, and you're invaluable to the type of work we do here now."

"This whole dance team started simply because a man in an eye patch had a nice idea and a fancy folder," I say.

"The second-in-command of Shield, Nick Fury, established a crisis response team of superior individuals to prevent threats against Earth," Steve corrects. "or, if the threat is successfully carried out, eliminate whatever enemies made themselves known."

"That's the Avenging part," I say in a stage-whisper.

He doesn't even look at me.

I am flummoxed by him ignoring me. I am not used to being ignored.

I smell something fishy.

I pull a bag of swedish fish out of my pocket and begin munching the red, rubbery candy with a particularly obnoxious sound of crinkling plastic.

"You have reservations," Barnes looks at Tony. "Do you have something you want to ask me?"

Tony's expression seems to say he isn't sure yet if Barnes is worth the time it takes to ask exactly what he wants to.

"Sure, I'll say something," he says. "It's nothing personal. Honestly, I like you, as a rule. You're veteran, a hero, and a friend of a friend. It will have to be good enough for me."

"Have to be?" Barnes pushes.

"We voted," Tony replies. "I was outvoted."

Barnes does not ask him why he voted against bringing him on the team. He simply nods, understanding. "I see."

There's a small, awkward silence.

"So," I spin my chair in a circle. "Anyone else hungry?"

"I would like your trial to begin now," Steve says. "If everyone is onboard with that."

Tony barely nods.

I spin my chair again. "Why the fuck not?" I exclaim.

"Welcome to the Avengers," Steve smiles at his old friend.

Get a room, you guys.

"Whoop-di-fucking doo!" I say, spinning my chair the opposite direction.

"We are under UN jurisdiction," Tony stands. "You'll be expected to sign the Accords due to your little POW stint."

Barnes winces, but nods with agreement. "Director Pierce caught me up. Already signed. They told me I was _category three enhanced strength,_ whatever that means. And they have the right to _reserve_ my so-called powers for missions, or I can quit and sign a document that promises I won't use my strength for anything except… having an easier time changing a flat tire, I guess."

"We do not work independently any longer," Steve says.

"The Avengers were privatised before," Barnes asks. "So I was told."

"Yes," Steve begins, "Tony and Fury built the team themselves, but after Ultron, the UN determined to…"

Tony makes a very loud sighing sound. "I'd love to hang out for the history lesson, but I got some work to do. Numbers to crunch, labs to clean."

"Seriously," I exclaim. "Nobody wants to order a pizza?"

"Maybe later," Steve says dismissively, voice rising over the sound of the door shutting on Tony's quickly exiting figure. "He'll come around, Buck."

"Do you remember when Hydra captured me? When I fell from the train?" Barnes says.

"Yes," Steve says. Not a memory he likes to recall, it seems.

"I don't remember, I wasn't there, tell me, instead," I say, folding my hands excitedly.

"When I escaped, and told you they'd given me the serum… tortured me, tried to make me one of theirs..." Barnes shrugs. "It was rough, those first few days. You weren't sure if you could trust me."

Steve smiles at him. "No matter what Hydra did to you - making you enhanced - it didn't change who you were. I knew you were still my friend."

"So we went both went down in the plane together and got iced in some sort of serum-induced paralysis," Barnes adds. "How's that for strengthening a friendship?"

"Am I FUCKING Susan Storm?" I exclaim.

"Are you?" Steve looks at me suddenly. "Who's Susan?"

"No - AM I - nevermind. Invisibility joke. You'd think you'd see right through it."

No answer.

"The turmoil you're putting me through right now!" I moan.

"Look, Wade, I'm sorry, we just have - a lot of catching up to do," Steve says.

Barnes gives him a warm smile. "I want to hear about everything I've missed."

I've never seen so much bullshit contained in one look before.

"Hold the elevator!" I bark loudly, making a speedy dash for the very normal door, slipping out and jogging awkwardly after Tony. It takes me a few turns down the slick, polished halls before catching a glimpse of his assured, hurried figure.

"Yo! Slow that fine ass down a second!" I call out.

"What do you want?" Tony turns around slowly. "Not in the mood for Cap-Recap either?"

"Cap-Recap," I repeat. "That's fucking adorable. Listen, I'm all about second chances, born again opportunities, boys becoming men, Boyz II Men, that sort of thing."

Tony is used to this. He merely waits.

"I have to say I'm with you on this one," I say. "The mayors of Ice Town are basing this recruitment entirely on previous circumstances that no longer exist."

"Then why the hell did you vote yes?" Tony exclaims.

"What, and look like a douchebag? No thanks."

"You're already a douchebag."

"Yes, this, I am aware of," I make a wiping motion with my hands. "Clean slate. New me. Feng shui."

"You've tried that move before, Deadpool."

"How did you know the title of my recently released sex-tape?"

"I don't have time for this." He turns back down the hall.

"Okay, okay, okay! Wait UP, Papa Bear!" I say, stopping him. "I just wanted to say I'll keep an eye on him. That's all. Barton isn't the only one who has a full house on strangely keen eyesight."

"And what do you expect to see?"

"Well, hopefully none of you naked, for one," I respond. "But the guy was trying way too fucking hard to not react to me. I've never seen someone keep so damn still unless they're in the window of a fucking Forever 21 window display. Which, in case you didn't realize, is a mannequin joke."

Nothing.

"You'd think a joke about dummies would be right up your alley."

"Jesus, Wade. Try to have a normal conversation for once in your oddly prolonged life."

"I love it when you talk like this," I act demure. "Go on."

"Based on the fact he does not rise to your verbal chum, you don't trust him?"

"No, it's because he wouldn't make fucking eye contact," I say with exasperation. "You and I are probably the only two that have dealt with as much white-collar double crossing bullshit as we have. Steve Rogers looks for swastikas and tentacles to find his bad guys. We notice other details. Like when a guy gets his balls in a twist and has to count to ten in order to not strangle me across a conference room table."

"To be fair, I've wanted to strangle you multiple times."

"Yeah! And you fucking say something while actually fucking looking at me."

"So we agree, we just don't trust him."

"I agree that I trust one person, and that is myself - no, two people. Myself and Blind Al. And I am trusting when my gut says bad news. It's good to trust your body, too. Whether you feel instinct tripping you up or a surprise erection, you just - gotta go with it."

"I really did not want that visual."

"I like my work here," I exclaim. "And I like these people. I won't let anyone else fuck that up. Not for a moment."

Tony is surprised by the sincerity. "Okay," he says simply. "Do whatever you want. Leave me out of it. I'll be playing with science and keeping my team in line and keeping my nose out of Roger's business."

"And I will keep my nose up both of their business ends," I reply.

He shakes his head, disgusted, and gracefully flees the conversation.

I immediately pull out my cell phone. I imagine that when I call this number, on the other end, _Friendship Never Ends_ by the Spice Girls starts playing. But knowing who this is, of course, I'm sure she doesn't use personalized ringtones.

"Yes?" answers the suave, intoxicating rasp of Natasha Romanoff.

"Do you remember that one time I totally found out about the intermingling nakedness of yourself and a certain green-raged-golem?"

"You mean Bruce and I having sex? Yes, I do." Her tone is instantly tired of me.

"You know that whole lab-after-hours kink is not one I would have pinned you for, but now that I've seen it first-hand, I get it. It's just really unfortunate I had left my tablet behind that night. Did I ever tell you why I came back for it? No? Well, it's the only device I have that has Netflix. Ness and I are really into musicals right now. So you and Bruce, like, sterilized that table when you were done, right? Because like - I mean, I'm happy to bring some lysol with me next time."

"Tell me what you want, Wade, or I am hanging up."

"When I promised I wouldn't tell anyone," I remind her, "You said you owe me big time."

"So, I owe you."

"I'm calling in the favor."

"Already?"

I glance at my watch. "So I waited less than twenty four hours."

Yeah, I found out last night.

"Don't you want to save the favor for something more exciting? Like an insurance?"

"I saved fifteen percent by switching to Geico," I answer, "So, no, I'm good, I need the favor now."

I hear her leave a room, the sound in the background changing from the murmur of public space to an enclosed, echoing chamber, like a stairwell. "What's the favor?" she asks.

"I need you to Trojan horse some shit. And, please," I add, "Don't make a condom joke, it's really unprofessional of you and I'm not in the mood. I need the best of spy work that only you can deliver."

"Oh, sure," she says, playing along. "And I'm first choice."

"Well, Tom Cruise first, you second. Couldn't get Tom. He is too expensive for this franchise, if you can believe that, considering the roster. Aside from my personal preferences. Here's your mission - should you choose to accept it. I need you to woo the new guy."

"What new guy?" She laughs lightly, doubtfully. She thinks I'm joking.

"James Barnes."

Her laughter instantly stops. "Why?"

"You know exactly why," I add. "Just inserting himself into the group like a well lubed…"

"Don't finish that sentence," she says.

"It was going to be impressive."

"You rarely impress me," she sighs. "But I'm listening."

"It took him less than three weeks to march through the front doors, gain level ten security clearance and now sits on all the meetings of Cap and Toon-Town. He has access to everything. Even brought up a brief stint as a POW when Hydra made him enhanced. Like, what the fuck is that about? He just straight up tells us Hydra has been inside his head and Captain is like well thank Odin you're here now? He just screams MOLE to me. It's super awkward. In the men's restroom, hallway, conference room, the labs… just MOLE, MOLE, MOLE, all day long. It's like having a goddamn muppet over my shoulder."

"What if I say no?"

"Then - then," I splutter. "I… I QUESTION your commitment to SPARKLE MOTION!"

I hear Natasha say something away from the mic.

"Who is thaaaat..." I ask sweetly. "Is that your lover of the nighttime?"

"Only one of them, apparently," Natasha replies, her voice becoming smooth - romantic. A player through and through. The best that there is.

"There's my lil' Black Widow," I say delightedly.

"You'll leave me alone with this is done," she says.

"Deal!"

"So what's your play?"

"No, the question is, sweet spider-woman," I answer, "Is how do YOU like to play?"

"Dating," she sighs. "I'll get into his head with a workplace romance, nothing further than that. He'll have to… uh… confide in me organically. I won't kill him, and I won't sleep with him. Got it?"

"Or you could sleep with him and _then_ kill him and really live up to your name."

"I'm hanging up on you."

...

* * *

 **Stake Out -** _ **Sam Wilson**_

* * *

...

I don't know how I got paired with these two yahoos on a stake out.

Brock Rumlow is a bit of a hardass who forgets to emote, even when talking to civilians. When a warm word can go a long way. And he's not even an Avenger, he's with Shield.

Rumlow had asked to join the Avengers and was turned down, but Shield loans him out to us so often that he might as well be our mascot.

He knows I don't like him.

Then there's Barnes. Barnes is the newbie who stepped into the role of the Captain's Best Friend all too easily. A title I thought I was allowed to share.

Guess not.

The man is a punk.

Let's just say, I have enough sparkling personality for handling interactions on their behalf if necessary. But not enough to make sitting in a car with them for three hours bearable.

"Can you move your seat up?" Barnes asks.

"No," I say shortly.

In a moment, I hear the leather seats squeak when Barnes slowly move over an inch or two. Rumlow looks into the rear-view mirror, and then back at the emptied warehouse.

"What are you thinking about, new guy?" he asks. Like he isn't already the ongoing new guy, welcoming the other new guy as if he's a more special new-guy.

Barnes does not even grant him a reply.

I may not like him, but I have to admit, the man has some god-given sass just by absence of giving in to Rumlow being a pest. I appreciate that.

"Forget it," sighs Rumlow.

After a beat, Barnes irks out a reply like it was a great struggle to think about how to relate to other people. "That card game last night?"

"What about it?" I ask. I won that game.

It got weird when Captain and Stark spouted off a couple of in-jokes. Rumlow was annoyed and got bitchy, Barnes looked like a lost puppy that somebody kicked too hard.

It wasn't even that fun of a game, and I was the damn winner. I think the whole reason Cap asked us all to chill out and play a few rounds of poker in the rec room was to see how we bonded, if we'd work together well.

We didn't. But obviously he saw something we couldn't, because the next morning, we got stake-out duty.

"Good game," Barnes answers.

Silence.

"Took you long enough to say so, Kenny," I say.

I'm running out of resurrection and snow jokes. Collectively between Tony Stark and I, we've called him Grumpy Jesus, Ice-Buck, King Elsa, Lazarus's no-good cousin, Bucky Potter, The Red Shirt Who Lived, Buck Frost...

Another silence. God, this man wasn't found in a glacier, he is the damn glacier.

"Wade fucking cheats," Rumlow says.

"He didn't cheat," Barnes says quietly. "Barton did."

"Hawkeye?" I exclaim. "No shit? The straight and narrow brother from another mother's nest? That Hawkeye?"

"Fuck Hawkeye," Rumlow says.

"Maybe Barton should take up illusions with Doc Magic," I say. "Still didn't do him any good, not after my can of ass-whoopin."

"He didn't cheat because he wanted to win," Barnes says. "He cheated because he wanted to fold." He looks out the side window again. "Guess he had somewhere better to be."

It's the most words I've heard him say since he started, and I decide to give him a break from my usual torment. "Wife and kiddos waiting at home a few hours south," I explain.

"He must miss his wife," Barnes says, more to himself.

"Y'know if we can get this shit finished," Rumlow interjects, "It means I get laid tonight."

"That so," I respond dryly. None of us participate in what most would call _locker room talk._ That's what white assholes like Rumlow bring to the table.

Put Cap, Stark, myself, Lang, Banner, Rhodes, Barton, Vision - even Barnes - put _any of us_ \- in any combination - in any secluded area, and none of us stoop so low.

Reason number thirty two we don't like having him around.

"That is so," Rumlow responds. "She says I've been working too many late nights. She's too tired when I get back."

"Pity," Barnes mutters.

"She said to me," Rumlow continues, "Babe, if you can get off work before midnight, we'll make it happen."

"That's great," I deadpan. "Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman."

Barnes snorts loudly.

"Fuck you," Rumlow exclaims.

"I'll get in line," I growl, pinning a finger to my ear piece. "Sky-Eyes? We got movement."

"You got three coming in from the south," Rhodes replies on air. "It's Whitehall's personal assistant and two Hydra guards. She has the briefcase."

"It's go time, people!" I say, my eyes tracking the movement of three small persons a great distance away, walking like they got something to hide. They step into the large opening of the warehouse.

We jump out of the vehicle. I jerk my elbows back to activate the wings, unfolding from my back as the repulsors ignite. In seconds I'm flying across the pavement, wind plummeting against my red-tint goggles and fluttering the individual scaled metal folds of my wings.

When the shadow of the warehouse door passes over my head, I'm greeted with a volley of bullets, and pull up to avoid them. The flash-bang eruptions overshoot, pinging the warehouse walls when I twist in midair, tucking in my arms so my wings mimic the movements.

In a diving roll, I launch myself feet first into the chest of the first Hydra gunman. He's knocked flat out, slamming his head on the concrete.

When I turn to take out the second, I find his gun trained dead center for my skull.

Suddenly, Barnes skids up behind him, grasping the man's neck in one hand, the other reaching forward and twisting the gun out of his hands in a move so fast that I blink and it's already over.

With a single heave, Barnes throws the man across the entire warehouse, where his body slams against a stack of oil drums, crumpling to the ground.

"Thanks, man," I say slowly.

"Anytime," Barnes shrugs it off. We both look at the girl.

The assistant stands trembling, knees wobbling under her pencil skirt, perfectly raspberry lipsticked mouth puckering with fear.

"Here, here," she says quickly thrusting the briefcase in my direction. "I didn't want it. I didn't want this. I'm a temp. I'm just a temp. This is my first day."

I take the briefcase.

"You're still in a whole hell of a

trouble," Barnes says, his tone completely non threatening. "We'll have to take you back for questions, you understand?"

Well, he's definitely better at this than Rumlow.

"Shoulda called in sick today," I say to her. "Sorry kid. Off to Shield headquarters we go." I call Rhodes again. "Clean up on aisle nine."

"Both agents subdued?"

"Well, they are unconscious,"

Barnes says cheekily.

Oh, good, frozen boy is melting a little.

Rumlow comes jogging up to the warehouse door. I forget how far away we were - how quickly the fight ended. I was going at sixty miles an hour. Barnes has some sort of super-human disease from a brief stint as a POW during World War II.

Rumlow's completely non-enhanced.

"Shit, I missed the fun," he exclaims.

"Not entirely," I say. "Looky, we got something for Shield." I thrust the briefcase into his hands. Then I take th elbow and gently start pushing her back into the sunlight. "Tell your bosses you had fun playing with the Avengers."

"Which part?" Rumlow growls, following us out. Barnes brings up the rear. "The boring stake out? Or the card game? Both sucked ass, by the way."

"So tell Pierce that you don't enjoy sucking ass," I reply. "Let's go."

I hear the sound of the briefcase unclipping.

"It's empty," Rumlow announces.

"Shit," I mutter.

This simple grab-and-bag mission just got way more complicated. I thought it would be yet another petty Hydra robbery gone wrong where we swoop in and save the day, and their cohorts run like mad while the Beverly Hillbillies theme song plays in my head.

But with hardware like this missing… and Hydra being self-aware enough to plant a decoy transfer…

This won't be simple, not by a long shot. I sense it will be a long, long time before we're putting this mission to bed.

...

* * *

 **Homecoming -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I knock on the apartment door. No answer.

"Aunt May?" I call out. "Aunt May… it's Peter."

The door opens so quickly it crashes on the wall beside it, then slowly swings back towards my aunt. She stops it with a flat hand.

"Peter?" Aunt May looks completely blank of emotion, only pure shock.

"Hi, May," I say. Feeling sheepish, lower than low.

I haven't spoken to her since the day I left to interview at the Avengers tower. Called her right before I gave up my phone for good. Told her that she wasn't going to hear about me for awhile, but that she would probably see something on the news, but not to worry. That I would be just fine. I couldn't tell her why - but I assured her everything would be okay.

It was torture to end the conversation that way. Especially because she didn't believe me.

"Peter," Aunt May says, her voice crumbling with both utter joy and horror. She reaches forward and clutches at me, pulling me into her arms and holding me as tight as she can. She cries, audibly, with a smile of relief. "Oh sweetheart. God, I'm so… I'm so…"

"It's good to see you," I whisper into her shoulder.

"It's so good to see YOU!" she repeats, her back suddenly straightening as she sees Scott and Luis standing at attention behind me. She jumps back and pushes me aside. "What the hell are you guys doing here?"

"Ouch," Scott responds.

"That's really cold," Luis cringes. "Like a, cold cold welcome."

"Sorry, I thought I made it perfectly clear that I wanted nothing to do with the Avengers, Shield, any of it," she snarls. "You framed my kid and took him from me. The best thing you can do is leave."

"Shh," I say quickly, "Aunt May - come on. They're with me. It's okay. Can we come in?"

Aunt May softens, putting a warm hand to my cheek and brushing away a runaway tear. Her eyes look desperate. "Okay," she says, standing aside to let me walk in. She gives Scott and Luis and appraising look. "Come in, if you want."

They dutifully skirt past her and stand uncomfortably in the living room. She shuts the door, deadbolts it, and security-locks it. She gestures to the kitchen table. "Everyone, please, sit down. I just make a pot of mac and cheese."

"We won't bother you for..." I say uneasily.

Aunt May places both hands on my shoulders again, this time, giving me a little shake. "You are talking like you're a stranger," she says. "Stop - just stop. Right now. Okay? I'm going to feed you. You look like you haven't eaten since you left." She glances at the stove. "I made three boxes, figuring I'd freeze the rest."

"If it's not too much trouble," Scott shrugs. "I could go for some mac and cheese."

"Then sit down!" Aunt May snaps.

Scott and Luis drop into the chairs so quickly it rattles the cups on the counter.

"Give us a minute," Aunt May pulls me towards the hall. We step behind the middle wall, hiding us from Scott and Luis's view.

"Are you - are you being blackmailed?" she hisses. "Just - tell me if you're in danger. We'll go through the window right now. We'll leave. They'll never find us again, we can go to Italy, there's like a step-great-grandmother, like, once removed, that has a cellar with indoor plumbing…"

"May, May," I catch her hands in my own. "Stop. It's okay. Everything's fine."

I open my mouth to continue, and then stop, uncertain. I glance around the apartment.

"I don't have any bugs," Aunt May adds. "Captain Spangles and the NYPD checked this place from top to bottom. Had a warrant and everything. Swarmed the place after your arrest. Wouldn't tell me anything about what happened." She looks away. "I threw a mug at Captain America. It shattered on his head and he hardly blinked. He asked me if I knew where you came by your rage issues. I told him he could go fuck himself."

I blink in shock. "You broke a - you broke a - cup on Captain America's head?" I exclaim. "That's - Aunt May - that's amazing, you're - I mean you're seriously…"

"We're in the clear," Aunt May cuts me off. "Please, just, tell me what happened."

I let out a breath of relief. "I got the job," I whisper. "I'm going undercover for the Avengers."

She sucks in a breath. "I knew it - I fu - I knew it. I knew it had to be something. Everything was a set up."

"The interview was the only real part. The charges, the circumstances, all of it, it's my cover. Scott and Luis are going to get me connected with illegal suppliers working in New York to work my way up to…" I pause, and bite my lip. "Aunt May, telling you all this… it will put you in danger. I shouldn't be telling you this. It's wrong. I shouldn't be burdening you with this."

She blinks rapidly.

"I guess there was a selfish part of me that could not stand the thought of you thinking anything they said about me was true," I admit. "It's all part of my cover. I didn't want you to hate me."

"I would never hate you, not for a million years," she wraps her arms around my neck, kissing the side of my head multiple times. "I never doubted you for a second. Do you understand me? Never doubted you, not once. _You_ said everything was fine, but then I thought the Avengers were framing you, trying to cover up something of their own."

I relax in her arms, taking deep, shuddering breaths. Silence falls.

"It's so good to be home," I whisper. "But I can't stay."

"Did those two goons tell you that Captain America is forcing me to move to a secure location upstate?" she asks, pulling back. "He said it was to protect me from you. I thought…" she tears up again. "I thought that meant I'd never see you again."

"It's to protect you from the people I will start working for, from Hydra, too," I explain. "Do everything Cap says. He'll protect you. I swear. Someday I'll be able to come visit. It…" I pause. "There is no expiration date on this job, but it may be a couple of years."

"A couple of years?" she gasps in horror. "I'm sorry, did you say YEARS?"

"I have to work my way up. Then…"

"Then you come home," Aunt May says fiercely, jabbing my shoulder. "You come home to me. Wherever that is. Promise me."

"I promise."

I hear a very loud AHEM from the kitchen. Scott and Luis look bored, impatient, and worried, when Aunt May and I heave a sigh in unison and look around the corner together.

"They said they needed a minute," Luis is whispering urgently. "It's been like, half a minute."

Aunt May leads me back to the kitchen and pushes me into the chair across from Scott.

"So," she says dryly, "Before you three go skipping off to your life of crime and I go into witness protection, let's have a nice meal." She glances over the stove, eyes widening, and then she turns down the heat. "The noodles are a little overcooked, but not too bad," she mumbles. Then she turns and looks at the table. "Who wants hot dog in theirs?"

Scott and Luis both raise their hands.

I snicker.

Aunt May gives me a look of delight, pleased to hear me laugh at all. "Two dogs it is, then," she smiles to herself, turning back to the fridge.

I glance at the clock, and back at Scott and Luis.

Tick, tock.

"So, he's Ant-Man," Luis erupts, pointing at Scott.

"Dude!" Scott exclaims, holding out his hands in a _what the hell_ motion.

"Really?" I squeak. "I had - I had no idea. So you're Avengers too. Not just weird guys with a van for hire."

"Naw, that's me," Luis says, "Weird guy with a van for hire. He's the Avenger."

"Took awhile to get there though, like you," Scott says kindly. I realize he's trying to help me feel calm, give me some encouragement. "My first job was literally a heist. I pissed off Falcon like you wouldn't believe."

"Stealing definitely not sanctioned by the Avengers," I smile. "That's ah… that's pretty dangerous."

"Tell him about the thing you did with the suit," Luis prompts.

"I try to humble brag only three times a day," Scott shrugs.

"Okay, I'll tell it," Luis brightens up. "So like - it all started with this hot chick, who is like, dude, I hate you, I want you, but we gotta work together for the greater good, and Scott's like, I'mma tap that but first we save the world…"

I grip my hands under the table, trying to quell the anticipatory panic in the pit of my stomach. I try to focus on everything - anything. Luis's story, the smell of the powdered cheese, the rough wood grain of the dining table.

Aunt May and I listen to Luis, laughing at all the right parts, Scott chiming in to correct Luis on his creative licenses.

This is the last moment of normalcy I will likely have in a very long time, I think.

Dinner with Aunt May's reputably questionable cooking. Hanging out with guys that work for Captain America. Before I become the guy fighting them.

When it is time to go, I know Ant-Man and Luis will wait outside, patiently, letting me say goodbye to Aunt May. She will hold me close and ask me to not go, change my mind, change everything. I'll be tempted to say yes. Let's go to that cellar in Italy with the indoor plumbing.

But then my obsessive personality will take over - no, I want to do this, it's for the greater good, Captain America needs me - asked me, interviewed me, chose me personally for this mission - the world will one day thank me for it. I'll be an Avenger. A childhood dream will be realized with a whole hell of a lot more work beforehand than I anticipated.

Aunt May will admire my bravery, kiss away the tears, remind me of my promise, and it will take all of heaven and hell to get me to leave her embrace.

When I walk down the hall, I will be unable to turn back. I shouldn't - it will erase my resolve. But I will catch a glimpse of her, waiting, by the open door, watching me get into the elevator. Her expression will shatter me. How selfish am I to leave her like this, when I am all she has? After Uncle Ben's death, that was it. She needs me. How could I do this to her just for the sake of slapping a giant A on my future uniforms, getting a clearance level in Shield, standing side by side with Captain America and Mr. Stark someday as a hero?

Will it be worth it?

Or will I lose?

...

* * *

...

* * *

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	3. Team Building

**Dear Readers,**

 **Thank you so much for the follows and favorites! I look forward to bringing you more content :) Please see the end of the chapter for personal replies. And if you like, leave a review! XOXO**

 **Pip**

...

* * *

...

...

 **CHAPTER THREE - Team Building**

...

...

* * *

 **The Briefing -** _ **Tony Stark**_

* * *

I give the room a look. Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Brock Rumlow, Scott Lang, James Rhodes, Clint Barton, Vision, and Wanda Maximoff.

I had asked Natasha to join us on this. She said she was running her own operation and she'd see me on the other side of it, whatever the hell that means.

Greenhorns is the word I would choose for this team, though all of them have contributed and worked in some manner before. Rhodes has been my most trusted friend for my whole adult life. Sam and Barnes were both soldiers before they came to us. Vision and Wanda make up for their lack of experience with powers. Rumlow is a mystery to me, but we can't function without the cooperation of Shield, otherwise all of our operations would get interrupted by red tape.

Scott? I don't know what the hell he does really; changes size and steals shit? Handy, but still finding his own value with us. He'll fit in when he stops fangirling over Steve's arms. In fact, he's just sitting in as a courtesy. He's flying back to San Francisco too soon to help us out much, anyway.

Clint is one of the originals. Thor is too busy being royal and shit on Asgard to do grunt work with us anymore.

There are times I miss the old days. Just Clint, Cap, Thor, Natasha, Bruce, and myself taking care of the world when it needed saving.

But then when we couldn't stop Ultron soon enough, and the Novi Grad things changed. Rightly so. Most of it my fault anyway.

Bruce refused to come to the meeting. "I'll just be a distraction," he had mumbled, bent over a microscope. "I have… interns to babysit."

"Bruce, come on, you know you help calm a room," I remember asking, "I mean, unless you're breaking it… but aside from that. It's important we stay a part of the team. The brute force and magic powers aren't shit without the things we do. The materials, the suits, Falcon's wing upgrades, Wade's therapy..."

"Listen," Bruce clapped me on the shoulder. "That's what they got you for, a'right? Let me just sit here quietly and do my job and stare in a petri dish until I'm blind."

"No one explains the microprocessors like you do."

"You practically invented them, Tony."

"My _father_ invented this strand. I want you up there with me. Come on."

Bruce shoved a pair of goggles over his eyes. "I'm Dr. Banner, science division of the Avengers Initiative. The Hulk is dormant. I'm retired from active duty, which includes the mission briefings."

"Unless you're the guest expert speaker," I pleaded.

"Later, Tony," Bruce held up a single hand and turned on a few switches over a projector, looking at a blueprint of a membrane twisting and hovering in hologram blue.

I waited at the door for a beat, to see if he'd change his mind. He didn't.

Our friendship remains close, it always has been.

But there's something about Bruce, and how he feels about working with the Avengers at large. It's fractured. It has been ever since he and I created Ultron.

I've made my bed, I lie in it. Bruce has had a harder time coming to terms with our mistake and moving on to the next mission.

Especially with Dr. Strange bidding for his attention, offering to try and teach him the science of his magic hoodoo.

While the Doc's powers of manipulation and various forms of portal-travel are useful, he's not a member of our team. He had the audacity to reveal himself to us as real-world wizard, give us shit about creating Vision without his permission, and then respectfully declined the invitation on becoming an Avenger. Even though his skills could easily be the most powerful of them all.

The smooth bastard prefers quietly guarding his ancient scrolls and drinking tea. Not sure why the hell he thinks he's so important… and not sure why _he_ thinks he's the all-seeing expert on the stone in Vision's head. Either way, his knowledge is attractive. He just doesn't share much. In fact, we know very little about him.

Bruce heavily considered joining him in the Sanctum for a peaceful life of mediation and Defense Against the Dark Arts, an offer that was difficult to refuse. I had to pull out every stop and promise I had to make Bruce to not abandon us.

It was a miracle I got him to agree running our science lab with me at all.

He very nearly retired.

"This… version of the Avengers is considerably new," I say slowly, "and some of you are the newest members of it. As Avengers, we are about as elite as a group can get." I drum my fingers slightly on the edge of the table. "Our day job, if the Planet Earth itself is not under threat or attack, is to smash - or, without Dr. Banner's presence, marginally disrupt…"

The room's occupants chuckle.

" - the organized crime in the United States, by our own efforts, and cooperation with Shield."

Rumlow gives a self important nod to the room.

"And we will do it," I promise, "And by organized crime in this city...you know who we really mean. Hydra. We're not just talking any Hydra leaders that have gone into hiding - like Strucker or Whitehall. We already know who they are. We're looking for whomever Hydra is planting elsewhere. Shield, Homeland security, world governments… the UN… maybe even the Avengers." I smile at the room, watching every face grow suddenly very uncomfortable.

Except Vision, he's a mask of tranquility. Typical.

"If we can't find out who they are, we start out with what we do know - and that's the syndicate responsible for keeping Hydra armed. Everyone, meet Adrian Toomes - aka, the Vulture."

I tap a few commands on my watch and making a swiping motion to send the image onto the big screen at the end of the room. Everyone glances at it curiously.

I have three pictures lined up now, with names and aliases.

Adrian Toomes - the Vulture.

Jackson Brice - the Shocker.

Aaron Davis - the Prowler.

Herman Schultz - the Muscle.

"Vulture uses three key guys, Brice, Davis, and Schultz. There's more guys on the crew we have been unable to identify. Or those that we do are just regularly rotating lowlifes used for buys and exchanges. Most operations occur underground. They are the biggest illegal weapons manufacturing and distribution crew on the east coast. Primary clients? Hydra. We've got some documents in front of each of you that brief you on prior records and last known whereabouts."

I watch the room as everyone leans forward in their chair, flipping open the folders and skimming the first few pages.

"If any of you read through them, and you spot something that ties them back to Shield, you let me know so I can pass off the discovery as my own to Captain America."

Everyone chuckles again. I glance at my watch.

Wade bursts through the door, one hand holding a cup of scalding, steaming coffee, the other holding a small, stuffed unicorn for no other apparent reason that I can see.

"Sorry I'm late, Bossman," he says. "I was four shots of Peruvian vodka into a Golden Girls marathon. What'd I miss?"

Scott lets out a snort of laughter, but a concerned look from Vision shuts him up.

"Just the cast of characters," I nod at the screen.

"They're adorable," Wade responds, ignoring the screen.

I glance again at my young team, catching Clint's eye.

Clint Barton gives me a shit-eating poker-face that seems to say he has absolutely no pity for how often I am stuck babysitting Wade Wilson.

"Today, Wade Wilson is more than just comedic relief," I say tiredly. "He's our liaison for Captain America's latest endeavor to get spies on the inside. And he's here to, hopefully, report on it." I turn to him. "Unless you prepared a puppet routine."

Wade acts as if he was caught digging into a cookie jar, tossing the unicorn over his shoulder as if we wouldn't see it. "Not anymore, sir."

Everyone laughs again.

"Whenever you're ready," I say tiredly.

"All right, punks," Wade turns and surveys the room with a critical eye. "First, there are people working undercover out there. They're like the fuckin' ghosts. You're not gonna see them, you're not gonna hear about them except through me or Captain America. You will not, ever, know the identity of undercover people for their safety... all this jurisdiction shit has more moving pieces than the shrapnel of Tony Stark's pacemaker."

"Oh, fuck yourself," I mutter into my own coffee cup.

"I'm too tired from fucking everyone else," Wade snaps back. Impeccable hearing.

"How's your mother?" I ask casually. I once told him that he was my about to become my stepson when Pepper and I were on our break, and I think he believed me for about two seconds. I will never let him forget it.

"Good, she's tired from fucking my father," Wade deadpans. "Who isn't you, nor will ever be you, but thank you for applying. I wish you all the luck on your future endeavors."

Wanda spits coffee down her red jacket. She hides her laugh quickly behind her hand, glancing sheepishly around until Vision hands her a napkin that he magically procured from god-knows-where.

"Next slide," I say, my mouth clenching to keep myself from laughing too. I tap my watch.

The next picture is of a manufacturing plant.

"This company you see on screen before you," I gesture for everyone to look back at the screen. "This used to be a Stark Industries plant for the building of microprocessors. In case you don't know what those are, those are the computer chips the size of a cancer-scare freckle. No offense, Wade."

"None taken!" he responds cheerfully.

"Somebody, as you may already know, stole one hundred microprocessors from the company last week."

Barnes raises a hand. "Sorry to interrupt. What does a microprocessor do, exactly?"

"It's the type of chip that tells computers to shoot a cruise missile so precisely it could go up the ass of the Mandarin from the other side of the planet," Wade responds. "These things are worth a hundred grand apiece. When Stark went all green-and-friendly and outed himself of the Superhero closet in 2008, this plant was one of the locations outsourced and sold to company rivals by Obadiah Stane. Or as I like to call him, Fat Iron-Man."

Rhodes is the only one who laughs at this.

"Don't feel left out," Wade says to him, "I like to call you Almost-Fat Iron-Man."

Rhodes's grin fades into annoyance.

I send up the next slide, of a body found in a dumpster about seventy minutes south of us. "This guy just started working for the company," I explain, "In two months, he walked out the door with a briefcase of processors on Tuesday, has a ticket booked for Europe on Wednesday, but on Thursday, he gets found in a dumpster. Sans briefcase. The briefcase was then spotted with Dr. Whitehall's temp assistant and two known Hydra agents, and as it turned out, the case was empty. They knew we were coming and switched them out early on."

"We think they're trying to point us in the wrong direction," Wade adds. "People like Whitehall, Malick, Strucker… these Nazi assholes function on the fact that their evil deeds are just so fucking obvious. We don't think for a minute they were going to put those processors on a plane for Sokovia. Even though it's very nice this time of year. Considerably nicer now that the elevation in Novi Grad is a little lower."

I choose to ignore his jab at the Sokovian incident with Ultron, but Wanda looks like someone just stabbed her with a kitchen knife.

"Sure, let's bring up that day, because it's not painful at all," Clint exclaims. "Jesus, Wade. Have some tact."

"Tact I do not have, tic tacs I do," Wade says. "Want one?"

"I want focus, people, and I want it yesterday," I say with exasperation. "You too, Tide-Pod."

Wade looks impressed. It's the first time he's heard himself compared to detergent.

"The guy who stole the briefcase," Barnes is looking through his folder quickly. "I don't see his name here. What is it?"

"Probably Martha," Wade answers.

"It's David Fairwig," I say. "His identity is what tied him to the Vulture. He's one of the rotating-red-shirts in Vulture's crew."

"Is it Fairwig Jr.?" Barnes looks up with interest.

"Yeah, Jr."

"Family runs Fairwig Market," Barnes says eagerly. "I, uh, knew his dad. David Fairwig Sr. Back then, before... Good guy. I heard the market is still there. I could reach out to him, he'd talk to me."

"Goody," Wade says dryly.

"We're not here to solve the case of the dead thief. If we look for the _literal_ killer we run down leads until the case is cold," I admonish. Barnes sits back, looking embarrassed. "We're here to nail Vulture, and whomever he prays to at night. I think the processors are going to be kept right here."

I show a slide of an aerial view, showing how close the murder-site is to the hangar where Rumlow, Barnes, and Wilson ran down the decoy-briefcase. Less than half a mile.

"We think Vulture set up the whole thing, popped his own guy, took the processors out of the briefcase, and sent it on its way with whomever was running an errand."

"During the interrogation the temp said that her agency had called her about a job to deliver a notarized will to a rich client upstate," Rumlow informs us. "She was given a briefcase and two body-guards by someone who claimed to work for Dr. Whitehall. She didn't think a single damn thing was wrong until they got to the hanger and she saw the helicopter. Nothing but a long, long con."

"They are working way too damn hard to make us follow that entire mess of a rabbit trail," Wade says. "Which is filled with enough fucking plot holes to make a paper snowflake."

"It's my belief," I interject, "The buyers will come to them directly. We can expect an exchange will take place. If they're selling to Hydra, we want to know. If it's foreign intelligence agencies, we want them too." I tap the table. "Vulture's our guy. Once he gives his suppliers away, he's ours. And once he's off the table, plenty of clients will come out of hiding to find a new supplier. We'll be there waiting."

"We're betting an awful lot on these spies you've got supposedly on the inside," Clint points out. "Because we can only assume so much."

"Further details would be endangering the life of the agent," Vision says thoughtfully.

"Yeah maybe we should, uh, uh, leave that alone," Scott says, suddenly dropping a pen on the floor, and then scooping it back up, looking incredibly guilty of something.

"We don't have to have a name," Wanda exclaims. "Anything else."

"She speaks!" I make a showman-gesture. "Please, Maximoff, feel free to do that way more often."

"It's getting a little testicle in here," Wade says. "Or is it… testy?"

I give in. "You mean testy."

"Oh, is that it?"

"Don't you miss the gold-old days of alien invasions and world domination?" Clint says sarcastically. "This domestic stuff has a lot of moving pieces."

"True," Wanda agrees, "And vague conjecture will not find your missing technology."

"Look," Barnes attempts, "What if we think we see the agents running with the bad guys - we don't know who they are but we got an idea, at least we don't, you know, shoot them on accident. Not who or when or why. Just where. "

"Where?" Wade asks. "On Planet Earth, yes. Next question."

"Can you tell us if any of Captain America's handpicked agents are in with Vulture right now?" Barnes presses.

"Maybe," Wade gives Barnes a level look. "Maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself." He maintains eye contact perfectly, staring him down as he sips his way-too-hot coffee.

Barnes sits back in his chair, frustrated.

"It's a valid question," Rumlow rises to his defense. "It would certainly help us, too. What if Shield gets this done faster than the Avengers and arrests everyone, including your people?"

"Then we bail them out easily enough," I respond. "We'll leave that to Cap."

"You have to give Shield something more to work with," Rumlow argues. "I report directly to Pierce, he reports to the World Security Council, they work hand in hand with the UN. Your bosses."

"My theory on Shield?" Wade offers. "They're like mushrooms. Feed them shit and keep them in the dark and they'll still be perfectly happy." He waves at the room, snatches up his unicorn stuffed animal from the floor, and tucks it triumphantly under one arm. "Briefing over. You girls have a nice day."

...

* * *

 **Networking Opportunities - _Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

There are three surprising things I receive as an undercover criminal.

Thousands of dollars.

A cell phone.

A place to live.

There is a catch.

First, the money will need to be withdrawn from a derelict ATM machine in a shady neighborhood. It's a joint account under my uncle's name and my own.

I guess it's supposed to look like a trust account deposited for my use after his death and activated when I turned eighteen, but I know very well my Uncle didn't have this kind of money. He gave away too selflessly. This comes right from the Avenger's pockets - and it's sole purpose is to try and buy a Vulture gun on the black market. My first illegal purchase.

Second, the cell phone is an old flip motorola from 2005. I am dying to show this to Ned, but of course, I can't. Aunt May said she would call him for me, but… she's not sure if her lines will be tapped by the Avengers. She wants to at least try to make sure I still have one friend left when all this is over.

The cell phone only has one number on it, and that number is for a line that rings Wade Wilson or Steve Rogers. It's saved under the contact name Richard Poole, a criminal defense attorney for first time offenders in Queens. The story goes, he was my attorney after getting arrested after the incident. If I look him up on Google, I find a website for him and everything. I don't even know if he's a real person or not.

I have my doubts. It sounds to me like Wade Wilson thought it would be funny to mix up the moniker "Deadpool" with my dead father's name. Seems like something he would find artfully ironic.

The third surprise - I'm going to live in Uncle Ben's old garage on Eagle Street.

It's not even technically on the street, the entrance is through a chain link fence, close to the Newtown water treatment center and several abandoned fenced yards crammed between warehouses full of junk cars. The garage sits on a very small lot that used to be filled with the cars that Uncle Ben was working on for customers. Now it's just a small, empty dirt yard, and a garage. The garage is attached to the back of a three story commercial building.

It's such a short jaunt across the Pulaski Bridge, to be safely back in Queens, that the homesickness will be crueler.

I don't know how Uncle Ben came out here every day. It's not a great neighborhood.

So, in a sense, perfect for what I'm supposed to do.

After turning off the street (the entrance is wide enough for a car), the garage is tucked under an old brick building with graffiti splashed against the front.

Uncle Ben always kept the door clean of this type of stuff. The neon yellow letters are so blocky they're impossible to read. There's a few body-looking gestures mixed with letters that might be in Russian. There's also a red and white peace sign. If I squint, it looks like a Spider-Man mask. There's a normal door beside the big one with a locked deadbolt. I'll need to find his spare key in the drawers inside somewhere before I can use it.

When I lift the roll-up, aluminum door until it clatters to a halt above my head, I'm surprised by how much the garage still smells like him.

There's a faint scent of Uncle Ben's old cologne mixed with the scent of car oil and the rubber of old tires. The electricity is attached to the empty rooms above it, which means it still has lights and running water. It's still in Aunt May's name but I'll be paying the rent from now on.

It's empty of cars now, otherwise there'd be room for two parked side by side. Not big. There's work stations along side both walls full of materials and tools, and a counter at the back wall with a sink, a microwave, and a mini fridge.

There's an old 1996 Windows desktop computer unplugged and sitting on the counter next to the sink - what Uncle Ben used for his quickbooks invoicing. For whatever few occasions someone actually remembered to pay him for his help.

Maybe I can figure out how to get it working again, in my down time. I like making old, found technology work for me…

If I need a restroom, there's a door beside the counter to the brick building behind me that opens near a laundry room and the maintenance/janitor closets.

I won't be entirely without the things to function normally, like working washing machines or a toilet. Just as long as I don't get caught by the management when I use them.

I don't have a shower. I'll have to jerry rig a hose over a hook in the wall and let the water run into the drain in the middle of the garage floor. Or sneak into a gym somewhere.

Maybe there's a shower at a public pool somewhere!

I shudder with disgust. Or I just never shower again! That works too!

I also don't have a bed, let alone a mattress. Looks like I'll need to visit a druggie's house for that. Don't they always have spare mattresses lying around in the movies?

Bad joke.

I heave a sigh, and dump my two overly large duffel bags, and my sleeping bag, onto the floor. Aunt May had insisted I take as many warm clothes as possible, and whatever canned foods she could force me to carry. They are ridiculously heavy even by super-strength standards. Even the sleeping bag is oddly heavy.

Maybe I'm just too tired for this.

The pale fluorescent lights buzzing tiredly against the dusty blue walls. The cement floor is cold and the air is stale and tepid, but at least it's not entirely freezing. I'll probably need to find a space heater though when it starts to get cold.

I hear the car horn beep outside. I take one last look around the garage, adjusting my backpack.

This… is my home for the foreseeable future. It's so horrible looking I could break down and cry like a little kid right now if I let myself.

But I don't, because the garage smells like Uncle Ben. These are his tools. There's probably still a beer in the mini fridge. This was a part of his life. This is how he helped people… people, good and bad, in our neighborhood.

I click the lights back off and watch the fluorescent flicker and die.

Luis and someone else I don't recognize are waiting in the van in the alleyway, engine still running and headlights flickering on. The sun finishes setting at last, turning the sky a light orange and lavender. The alleyways are entirely dark now, and the city streets gray with twilight.

I pull the garage door down, lock it with the padlock, and press the key into my jeans pocket. I slide open the side door, hop in, and slam it shut behind me.

Showtime.

"Ey, Parker," Luis greets, jerking his thumb to the man in the passenger seat. "This is my cousin! Andre!"

Andre looks very drunk. "Bienvenidos, Pika," he greets with a slur. He looks maybe ten years older than Luis, sporting a scraggly black beard and blurry, bulging eyes.

"My least favorite cousin," Luis narrates as he pulls the van out of the alley and gets into traffic. "Okay, technically, not even really my cousin. All I know, is like, my grandfather had a sister, right? She married a guy and they had like, three kids. So like, my dad's cousin's, okay? One of those kids married a guy who already had like, two kids from another woman, right? One of those stepkids, right, found me in San Francisco and was like HEY WE'RE COUSINS and I was like, awesome, man, let's get a drink! And we like, planned out this whole family tree thing and drew it on napkins and realized we weren't really exactly related, which was good, because then he like, met my REAL cousin, except on my mom's side, and they started dating, so kinda awkward."

"But we broke up," Andre assures drunkenly.

"Yeah they broke up," Luis's promises. "He moved out to New York while I was in prison and then after I got out and I was here to visit some friends I was like, hey, let's do some crime! And he's like, cool! Like, what kind of crime? And I'm like, that's your area of expertise, what do you do? And he's like I could do any of them, drugs, alcohol, robbery stuff."

"I don't really want to rob anyone tonight," I say as casually as I possibly can.

"No but if you do want to rob someone you gotta buy a gun first," Luis prompts.

"I should definitely have a gun if I'm gonna survive this - shithole," I say sallowly. I usually never curse unless I'm caught by surprise, or freaking out with excitement about something. Shithole. Tastes as foreign as the mac and cheese I vomited out of nervousness earlier.

"Wait, you know what I gotta say now," Andre says.

"What?" Luis asks. "What do you have to say?"

Andre chuckles and shakes his head from side to side. "Don't make me say it!"

"Say what?" I ask.

Andre keeps shaking his head, as if the room is spinning and he's trying to spin with it.

"We're not working for cops, dude!" Luis laughs, punching him in the shoulder, nearly driving off the road. "I'm your cousin!"

"Least favorite cousin," Andre laughs. "I had to ask, man, okay?"

"We're not the cops you idiot," Luis punches him in shoulder again. "We're both reformed criminals about to become unreformed! Like, Jesus, this kid is the shit!"

"Yeah? What were you in for?" Andre asks doubtfully.

"Attempted murder," I respond evenly.

"They let you OUT?"

"Charges couldn't stick," I say.

Andre looks uncomfortable. "I was thinking you were in for like, stealing dad's car and mom's credit card. Some white collar shit."

"Look, are we going to compare rep sheets or what?" I ask, trying to sound frustrated. It's just fear - all of it. Gallons of fear gushing through my veins with no outlet unless Andre stabs me to death and I bleed out. Then maybe the fear will go away.

"I thought we were gonna buy a gun. Let's…" I take a deep breath. Aunt May would be fetching a bar of soap to wash my mouth out even though she said it multiple times herself, sometimes several times a day… "So let's buy a fucking gun already."

"That's my duuuude," Luis shrieks with delight. "Told you he was the shit."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Andre slumps, still unimpressed. "All talk so far! All talk, all talk," he opens a paper bag by his feet, uncaps a brown bottle of beer, and takes a huge swig. "So what sort of white collar shit name is Parker?"

"Really?" Luis cackles. "What kind of name is Andre? It's like your parents tried to name you Andrew but died half-way through!"

"Fuck you, man!" Andre says, but he's grinning. He opens up another beer and hands it to me. "Cheers!" He dumps his beer on the floor, and pounds his hand on the dashboard. "Pull over here, man! Pull over real quick! I gotta ask a Puerto Rican something!"

Luis's van slowly groans to a stop at the curb.

It's fully dark now, the pavement damp with a recent rain, the dark red and white lights of New York City reflected in every gutter puddle. Andre jumps out of the car and runs up onto the sidewalk where there's a few men standing in a half circle, smoking and talking outside of a barred convenience store. He appears to ask a question, and one of the men points down the street.

While he's distracted, I chuck the contents of my beer bottle out Luis's open window.

Luis giggles.

Andre gives them a little friendly wave, tucks his hands in his hoodie, and trots back to the van, his sneakers splashing in the puddles.

"They said Brice is down at Punzi's," he says. "He's a guy to see when you want a gun."

"And what makes Brice the guy with the guns?" I ask. "I know Punzi's. My uncle used to go there with his buddies to watch the World Cup. It's nothing special."

"Trust me - if Brice is there, that's where you wana be."

"I don't want just any guy trying to sell me something. I want good stuff."

"If I was going to find you shit, I would have just left you with the three guys on the curb back there," Andre jerks his thumb and points back to the street corner quickly receding behind us. "They have a few guns on the market but they're idiots. We're not supposed to even think about guns or even getting into fights about guns on this side of the bridge."

"Who says?" I ask.

"Vulture says. God says, as far as any of us are concerned. Jackson Brice's bossman. He's the only market in town. Either you do it legally at a pawn shop or with his guys. You try to go through anyone else and I hear he will personally show you what his weapons can do."

"Like how?" I press.

"Like shooting your own leg off with some sort of flesh melting ray gun from Mars or some shit?" Andre exclaims. "The dude is fucked up every way till Sunday. So - literally the best one out there."

"Andre knows his shit, man," Luis says. "I know you're local and all, but he's been in the business longer than both of us put together."

"If you wana act like a snob, go back to San Francisco with my cousin," Andre grouses, drinking his retrieved beer again. "Maybe there they'll let you have a glass of wine before they throw you off the Golden Gate Bridge."

"Okay, okay, fine," I say, earning a small look of concern from Luis in the rearview mirror. He gives me an encouraging smile as soon as Andre is distracted with the brown bag at his feet. "Let's go see Brice."

"You're on your own now, brothas," Luis leans to shout out the rolled down window when Andre and I exit the van outside Punzi's Tavern. "Catch a train or a cab. I guess. Isn't that what people do in New York?"

"What sort of shit do you have?" Andre snaps back. "A fucking trolley?"

"Don't mock my trolleys, man," Luis tips an invisible hat to me and the van chugs away from the curb, rumbling down the road half a block and turning left out of sight.

I feel so unbearably lonely it hits me in the gut - this solitude, on my own, with the villains I used to web up and pin notes to on the steps of the precincts.

FOUND, CRIMINAL. YOU'RE WELCOME.

FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDERMAN

"Come on, tiny killer," Andre gives my shoulder a friendly punch. He leads the way into the taven. It's fairly empty, the lights on at medium, not fully blacked out like a club or bright as a restaurant. Not that I would know. I'm eighteen. But I've seen movies with those things.

The old fashioned bar is stretched along the left, standing stools with tall tables on the right. In the second half, a few arcades, and larger booths for bigger parties. Finally, at the back, doors on the right leading to restrooms, and one more door at the back leading into a room with a pool table.

Medium shadows, midsize room, full capacity of anxiety.

Andre looks at one of the tall tables, second from the last. There's a few guys sitting at it, one of them a skeletal looking hardass with a Biblical looking beard and loose workman's clothing. This is the person Andre notices instantly.

"Lemme go say hi to Mr. Brice," he says, nudging me towards the counter. "You go order something. Hang out for a bit."

"You don't want to introduce me?"

"If they want to meet you, nothing will stop them," Andre replies eerily.

"What's that mean exactly?"

"There's something to consider, just so's you know," he hisses at me, lifting his shoulders up and down like he hesitates to say anything at all. "Guys like these are impressed by violence. Okay? So you should feel right at home. Lemme just tell 'em what you were in for. I mean if you killed someone today for, say, a bad deal, they'd be more apt to like you but it can't be helped, aight? Just do your thing. We'll come to you when the time is right."

"Thanks, Andre," I say, surprised at how grateful I am. In his own sick, twisted way, Andre introducing me to the black market of underground weapons dealing is doing me a personal favor. It's the warmest welcome I could have possibly expected.

"Ey, any ex-convict friend of Luis' is a friend of mine," he chuckles. "Especially white boys with deep pockets and nothing to lose." He claps my shoulder again. "I got your back. And when we're through here I'm going back to my dope and you're gonna do your own thing. Now git. Go order a drink from Elliott."

He shoves me towards the bar. I try to act like I don't care, shoving my hands in my hoodie and crawling atop the nearest stool.

"What can I get you?" says the man at the bar. Elliott. He looks me up and down. "You look like a teenager." He eyes me critically, as if daring me to order a rum. There are two things that would happen; one, he's afraid he cards me and offends the people I am suddenly associated with. His eyes keep flicking nervously over to Andre talking to Brice in the corner. Two, he doesn't card me, and I'm a cop that busts him for underage service.

Andre accepts a shot offered to him by the men at the table. He knocks it back, easy.

"What do you have for mixing?" I ask. "Like what do you put with the vodka?"

"I have grapefruit juice and cranberry juice," he responds slowly.

"Can I get a cranberry juice?" I ask.

He stares at me. So does the man sitting two seats down from me. He's wearing a frumpy suit and keeps looking at incoming texts without answering them.

WHERE ARE YOU?

WE ARE CUTTING THE CAKE.

YOUR SON IS ASKING WHERE HIS DADDY IS.

WILL WORK KEEP YOU MUCH LONGER?

CAN YOU ANSWER PLEASE?

The man turns his phone screen off, sips his whiskey sour, and gives the bartender a grin as if to say 'these darn kids nowadays'.

"I'm only eighteen," I say brightly "I'm just here for my friend."

Elliott shakes his head and chuckles. "Sure thing, kid. One non alcoholic juice. Coming right up." He gives me a side eye. "I'm still charging you full price for it though. That's one less mixed drink I can make with it."

"Yessir," I mumble, scuffing one fingernail at a scratch on the counter's surface. I chip at it for a minute distractedly, listening in on Andre's conversation.

"He got out of the joint on a whim. Couldn't stick the charge on 'em."

"What was it?"

"Attempted murder. Assault and shit. Now I know he don't look it, but offend him once and he gets all crazy in the eyes, y'know? But like, a nice kid? Nice until he isn't. So like don't cross 'em, he-he - he'll be good to ya."

"But if he came from a nice family…"

"He talks like his shit don't stink but he's good people."

"I knew his Uncle Benny," says the bigger guy. Black, balding, looks built to take out a tank with bare hands. Not unlike the rumors of the guy who is bullet proof or something, but he's in Harlem, and from what I've heard, he's more of a good guy. Not like these guys.

"Right, right, right, Benny," Andre nods. "I never met the guy but ev'rybody loves Benny." His words are really beginning to slur, the drunkenness becoming more obvious.

It's weird to hear people in the criminal underworld talk about Benny and knowing that they mean my kind-hearted Uncle Ben. He hated being called Benny.

Elliott puts the cranberry juice in front of me. I hand him a ten dollar bill and wait till he gives me the change before I drink it.

I focus on sipping slowly, not a huge fan of the taste, but needing the hydration.

My skin shivers as the man in the threadbare suit stands out of his seat, tapping the counter and pointing at his empty glass for a refill. "Cranberry juice is a natural diuretic," he says to me, like he's trying to start a friendly conversation. He slides down a foot or two, getting obnoxiously close to my bubble. He doesn't bother to sit again, just stands too close. If I were looking at a newspaper, or my phone, he'd be reading over my shoulder at this point.

Only it's not friendly.

His entire demeanor says drunken threat drunken threat drunken threat.

I do not glance entirely over, but my spider-sense can tell that Jackson Brice, the big guy, and Andre are all looking over at the counter.

Guys like these are impressed by violence, Andre had said.

I've been released after a dropped charge of attempted murder.

Just how much of a performance should I put on tonight?

Spider-Man was my performance. Always making funny little jokes and cocky statements when I tied up bad guys with webs and won the fight every time.

What would, like, an EVIL Spider-Man do?

Probably wear black and rob banks.

"My wife drinks it when she's got her period," he says with a grunt. He leans down too close to my face, and adds nastily, "Didja get your period, toots?"

I calmly pick up my cranberry juice, turning slightly in my seat to look at his smug face.

I swing my arm up, and over, and with a hard slam, smash the glass of cranberry juice on top of his head.

It shatters instantly in my hand, huge chunks breaking (and sticking) in his scalp, and instant splash of red blood erupting over his thinning hair around his ears and the bald circle on top. Juice splashes down his suit, my arm, the counter, the floor.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes with a horrified shout, bouncing off the bolted stool on the floor, and I launch myself at him before he even hits the ground.

But I'm hauled back quickly by several pairs of hands, Andre screaming at me not to kill anyone here, the others chiming in with a cacophony of

Take it easy! Take it easy! Get off him! Get off!

There's a strange whirrrrr of electronic hum, and with a sudden jolt of electricity running through my body, and I'm shot straight backwards into the opposite side of the room by the tall tables, my back slamming against the seventies wallpaper and the vintage rotary phone attached to the wall.

Did I just get tazed?

Blinking, I shove myself off the wall and step forward, but the bearded skeleton, Brice, is shoving me back once more to hit the wall a second time. The rotary phone gets knocked off the cradle, the curly cord too long to prevent it from clattering loudly onto the floor.

Brice is wearing some sort of gauntlet, a dark gray, metallic arm brace brimming with what feels like static electricity and a hum.

"Get your hands off me," I say, shoving his arms back again.

He stands in front of me, dark brown eyes angry. "Do you know who I am?" he asks.

I look him up and down. "No?" Then I smile. "Why? You on TV?"

He is not amused. "I'm the guy who tells you there are guys you hit and there are guys you don't," he says, and looks down with greedy admiration at his own gauntlet, the blue energy crackling through the metal seams. "That's not quite a guy you can't hit, but it's almost a guy you can't hit, so I'm fucking ruling on it right now - you don't hit him, got it?"

I nod and flex my arms out in front of me as if I don't give a darn about it. "Sure, Electro. Whatever you say. Fine."

"We've got enough going on with the Italians from Brooklyn without newcomers starting fights here," says the big man. "So you shut it down, or we shut you down."

"Which Italians from Brooklyn?" I ask.

"None of your fucking business, that's what," Brice jabs a pointer finger in my shoulder. "I know your family. Also I know if you try to buy guns on the streets with this fucking idiot, I'll forget your uncle was very nice to the crew and cut your fucking nuts off. You understand that?"

"My nuts are in danger," I repeat goofily, straightening my jacket. My heart is pumping so fast I must be having a heart attack. This must be how it starts. "Got it."

"So now you know me, Chuckles," he says. "Jackson Brice."

"Yeah," I reply. "Peter Parker."

"What are you drinking, Parker?"

I hesitate. "Cranberry juice."

Brice's mouth twitches. "You on your period or something?"

"I'm eighteen," I say, trying to act like I'm bothered by my youthful appearance. "If I want beer I usually have to send someone into a convenience store for me. It's not that easy!"

"Oh, yeah, okay, you're on the young side," Brice points at Elliott. "Did this fucker card you?"

"No."

Brice shakes his head, going back to the counter. "One more cranberry juice for Prince Charming over there," he says. He looks down on the floor where the suit-man is groaning, and reaches down, lifting him up by his lapels and straightening him out. "This is Benny's NEPHEW," he says loudly to him.

"So fucking what?" says the man in the suit.

Brice's fist flies out so quickly, it's a blur, a double fist punch to the stomach with his dark metal gauntlets. The man doubles over in shouting pain, clutching at his abdomen and cursing loudly.

"Get the fuck out!" Brice says. "We respect the dead here."

"Go home to Amanda," calls the big guy. "She's probably wondering where her loving husband went."

"Fuck you Shultz," the man moans, clutching a handful of bloody napkins out of the dispenser and holding them to the wounds in his head -

The wounds I put there -

Impress them with violence impress them with violence impress them with violence -

I just assaulted an innocent alcoholic missing his son's birthday...

I'm so ashamed of myself, I could just give myself up now! Raise my hands and declare "I'm a fake, I'm a fake!" and back out, slowly.

Elliott hands me another cranberry juice. I don't know what else to do, so I pick it off the counter and take several panicked gulps.

No one would think the worse of me if I quit.

Captain America would probably realize he asked too much of me.

"Sorry you had to see that," Brice says, reaching over and dusting off the shoulders of my jacket. He straightens the collar for me. It is not meant in a nice way.

"We liked your Uncle Benny, so, we're not going to beat the shit out of you. Today, anyway. Got it?" He takes the cranberry juice out of my hand and sets it on the counter. I look at it, and at him, confusedly.

"Got it," I gulp.

"Get out of here," he shoves my shoulder towards the door.

"Hey," Andre protests, "But what about the thiiiing?"

"I said get the FUCK out of this bar," Brice exclaims. "And you!" he points at me. "You're welcome here any time. But don't bring your fucked up dopehead friend."

He points back at Andre.

Andre is so drunk now he doesn't even care about the insult, he giggles with his mouth shut, swaying back and forth. "This isn't my jam," he says, a bit of spittle flying out of his mouth. "The kid just needs'a good gun, OK?"

"Both of you do what the man says," Shultz, the big guy, says, taking a threatening step for us. "You've done enough damage for one night. Get out."

I grab Andre's jacket and practically drag him out of the tavern. He drunkenly tries to escape my grasp.

"Fuck me, man," Andre is laughing. "THAT is how you make friends!"

"That's friendship?" I repeat, somewhat angrily. "That's guy's hardware nearly zapped me into the future!"

"That's why they call him The Shocker," Andre guffaws. "Haven't you heard that one before?"

"No, never."

"Well, get used to it. It's how he keeps people in line." He jabs a finger once, twice, crookedly, into my shoulder. "He liked you. Bought you another drink, didn't kill you, told you to come back any time… that's good shit." He holds out his arms like a showman. "You're WELCOME, bitch."

"Thanks, Andre…?" I say.

I'm not entirely sure if this was going to get me in with a criminal underworld, but how does one even find them to begin with? Networking, I guess. Really twisted, drunken, brawling networking. "Can you find your own way home from here?" I ask, tiredly. I am grateful. But I don't want to babysit.

"Sure, fuck, yeah, man," Andre waves me off. "Night ain't over. I'm gonna hit up Bouncy's, you wana go?"

"What's that?"

"Bouncy's, man," he laughs. At my look, his eyes narrow. "Girls? Poles?"

My idea of girls is someday getting over my shyness to ask one of them out to go get a milkshake or something. And then after we date for awhile, maybe she feels comfortable enough to ask me to join her for Thanksgiving with her family.

And then eventually when the time is right and we're in love and things are going well then we… uh… take the next step.

"Oh, oh oh, I get it, okay, uh, maybe another time," I stutter my way through a protest, blushing so hard I can feel the red-hot heat on my ears and cheeks.

I would never. Ever. In a million years.

Aunt May would kill me if I ever went to a strip club. No, she wouldn't have to.

I'd die before ever setting foot in one. I would rather die than go to one.

"I just want to go to sleep," I add. "I don't think I've slept in three weeks!"

"Your loss!" Andre stumbles down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

I sigh and tuck my hands in my pockets, walking down into the darkness of the damp street. I avoid lights, I avoid anyone I see on the sidewalks, and I steer clear of… well, everything.

As soon as I enter a completely empty, dead street, I heave a cleansing sigh, stick my hands to the nearest wall, and crawl arm over arm until I launch myself over the top of the room.

Wow, I really missed this while I was in prison for the shortest prison-stint EVER.

I take a running leap off the roof of the three story building to the roof beside it.

Even without my web shooters, I can still trust my super-powered body to move confidentiality. I can jump higher, soar longer, land better.

I parkour myself all the way back to Uncle Ben's garage, actually enjoying myself, the brisk night air, the freedom, wishing and wanting away all the shadows, forgetting about the man whose head I smashed with broken glass - the broken glass, the blood, the blood running down his forehead, what would Amanda say when he got home, did he make it home okay - did he bleed out - did he get home to his son's birthday - his son's birthday, his son's birthday….

I slam into a wall, slip, and fall down half a story with a shocked shriek before I catch myself on the brick windowsill.

"SHIT!" I exclaim, frozen in place, elbows straining. "Whew," I whisper. "Easy, Parker! Don't start out DEAD!"

I slowly lower my elbows until my arms are straight, letting go and sliding a few feet down to the roof of the one story below me. From there, I jump into the alleyway beside it, pull my hood back up, and venture onto the sidewalk like I'd never been flying from street to street.

I glance at the sign for the building I just landed next to. The diner and pub is simply called Jo's. The sign underneath says, Best Breakfast in Greenpoint.

I'm about eight blocks away from my garage. I remember Uncle Ben mentioning finding some of his customers in Jo's, looking a little worse for wear.

"It's a good place for pancakes as long as you don't gamble," I remember him saying once. "Lots of rough people find themselves there."

I guess I'm one of those rough people now, so I should probably come by sometime.

When I get back to the garage, it's a lot colder inside. I suddenly remember I don't have a mattress and should probably get one soon.

I move several tires into two rows of three each, and then find two old floor mats. They're too short but I try and lay them on top of the tires alongside each other so that my elbows or legs won't drop down in one of the rims in the middle of the night.

Then I start to unroll the sleeping bag Aunt May insisted I take.

It's… crinkling like plastic. Huh.

I let out something like a gasp and a sob in delighted, delirious happiness.

Aunt May had rolled up her old deflated air mattress into the sleeping bag. And a thermal blanket. And one of the smaller throw pillows from the couch.

And then she tried to zip the whole thing shut around it, absolutely destroying the zipper.

She tried to give me everything I needed for a temporary bed.

I hug the pillow to my face for a second, but I hear my phone go off. A polite ting.

I answer. "Who is this?"

"It's Steve."

"Hi, Captain - er, Steve. What should I call you exactly?"

"Come up with anything you like when you can't be overheard."

"Yeah, okay, cool," I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and finish unrolling the mattress, laying it out on the tires and setting the blanket and pillow to the side.

"Luis said everything went smoothly."

"Yeah. I mean, I think so."

"What happened after he dropped you off?"

"Made some friends," I shrug, and then I realize he can't see the shrug. I accidentally dislodge the phone and it falls, but I try to catch it, it bounces off my hands, then I windmill my hands a second time and finally catch it with my fingertips.

Like an old silent film comedian trying to save a juggling act.

"Sorry," I say into the phone. "I dropped you."

"Did Luis's informant get you in with any underground dealings?"

"It's too early to say yet," I reply. "I'm not sure what happened tonight. I think I impressed a guy called Jackson Brice."

"So you did meet the Shocker. Good," Steve sounds pleased. "If he takes a liking to you, I bet you'll find your way into Vulture's crew before long."

"He said I could go back to the tavern any time."

"Good. Then do that. What we've asked you to do… it isn't easy."

"I know."

"We want to make sure you're okay… that you stay okay."

"What, like, go bad and sell you out?" I ask confusedly.

"No. Mental health." He sighs. "Something I'm getting used to as well. Back then, they sent boys home with shellshock. Did nothing for it. Self treated with alcoholism and family abuse. Self destructive cycles were expected."

"I don't plan on drinking!" I say shrilly.

"Listen. When I send my boys into war, I want to make sure - first and foremost - that they know they got help. While they may be putting themselves into bad situations, bad places that can cause bodily harm - playing a part, and getting into character, maybe doing bad things themselves for the cause of good - it's tough. And I know it. But you won't be without help."

"Oh," I say shortly. "Look, Mr. America - damnit - I mean, Captain, sir…"

"No buts. I expect you to tell me if, and when, it's too much. Got it?"

"Sir, yes, sir," I say resignedly.

"Okay. We'll speak soon."

The call ends.

I get to work blowing up the air mattress, and it doesn't take long before I have a makeshift bed a hundred times better than I could have guessed on my first night as a slightly-less-than-homeless released convict.

I crawl into the sleeping bag on the air mattress.

"I miss you, Uncle Ben, Aunt May," I say into the darkness. "Goodnight."

I shut my eyes tight and try to sleep against the muted, muffled darkness of the garage and a pillow that smells like home.

...

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* * *

 **Reviewer Replies**

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 **BeccaRave:** Alas, he never is really meant to infiltrate Hydra! You'll see ;) Thanks for your review! Can't wait for you to discover more!

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	4. Opponents

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Dear Readers,

Hello, new follows and favorites, and hello reviewers! Thank you for stopping by and reading my story! I am so glad you are enjoying it so far.

Hugs,

Pip

...

* * *

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 **CHAPTER FOUR - Opponents**

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* * *

 **Elevator Pitch - _Bucky Barnes_**

* * *

...

The last time I saw the Black Widow in action, I wasn't James Buchanan Barnes.

I was the Winter Soldier. The place was Odessa, Ukraine. She was escorting my target, a nuclear scientist, out of Iran, and she got between me and the bullet intended for him.

It went right through her stomach and killed the scientist.

I will never forget her face. Her mission was a failure; that the person she was supposed to protect was dead, and that if she didn't get help soon, she would be too.

I remember her looking directly at me.

She wouldn't see me, I was over two miles away, and I was watching her horrified realization through the scope of a McMillan Tac-50 sniper rifle. It was the most real - and raw - expression I had ever seen from a spy and assassin. Someone trained to hide emotions at all times.

The moment I shot her, I felt like I knew her better than anyone else in the world.

And then her expression turned from one to shock, and shame, to bitter fury.

Her training allowed her to pinpoint where the shot would have some from. The incredible distance meant she knew who did it.

In that moment, she hated me so thoroughly, I could feel it inside a heart that I thought was dead.

I had never forgotten it.

She came across my scope every so often. She wasn't the target, but like before, often got in my way. I could have killed her many times. But I never took the shot. How could I? She was like me. She gave up the KGB for Shield, and eventually, the Avengers.

I didn't exactly deny my old training - whether it the good ol' American Army Boys or Hydra's conditioning - to move up to Shield and the Avengers. We just chose a new path, the old paths always in hindsight. We advanced almost exactly the same way.

But what she knows about me is what everybody knows about me. I was a war hero. I was captured by Hydra with the rest of the Howling Commandos, then rescued by Captain America. We saved the world together in that plane. He got out and I didn't… the tale goes… till now.

I was actually conditioned during my first capture. Trained, tortured, brainwashed, threatened, bought… whatever and however one would categorize it.

I would call it a change of programming if anything.

Steve never noticed a difference in me. I didn't even notice a difference in me - well, not much of one, anyway. Maybe shellshock, but, I guess that's not really a real thing anymore.

When we went down in the plane, I was pulled right away by my Hydra handlers. Steve was the one who laid down there for seventy years. I tried to go back for him - I wanted to get him out, I swore I would.

My handlers wouldn't let me.

But I begged, how I begged. I wept like a child, I pleaded. I dropped to my knees and swore fealty for my entire existence if only they'd let me go back to that plane and recover his body. My brother.

Their response: they beat me till I was nearly dead and told me that Steve was dead too.

My heart was empty without a friend. My best friend. It was my job to take care of him. Even when he got bigger, thicker, and more superhero-like than me due to that damn serum. I never really stopped seeing him as Steve, the hero's heart who didn't know how to quit. The one who needed rescuing in a bad fist fight every so often.

It was the only job I had. Caring for him.

When it was gone, so was I. I couldn't live without Steve. So I stopped living and helped others stop too. Thus perished Bucky Barnes.

I took on the moniker Winter Soldier after the programming, and my illustrious assassin career began. I never enjoyed pulling the trigger. It was just something that I did because I had to. I'm literally coded that way. Hey, it's not a real job if you don't hate your work, right?

I've simply exchanged one boss for another. They both ask me to do the same shit. It's the same brand. Hydra, Shield, they're all after the same thing… control. Not world peace, that's a joke. Just control of the outcome so that we can pretend everything is peaceful.

There isn't bad and good. There's just when you take a shot and when you don't.

When Black Widow is in my sights, I don't take a shot.

But maybe that changes today.

I never really noticed how beautiful she was till now.

She gets into the elevator next to me. For a moment, my hands tremble. I squeeze the briefing folder slapped with a giant A on the cover in my hands, concentrating the sudden nervousness, the feeling in the pit of my stomach reminding me of how long it's been since I've had the time… the freedom… to talk to a beautiful woman.

Her red hair is longer than I last caught a glimpse of her. She's wearing skin-tight black pants and a dark green athletic jacket. By her posture, the way she holds a small black gym bag on one shoulder, the Nike shoes, I would guess she is heading off to work out in one of our many training areas.

She could kick my ass, I'm sure of it.

The thought makes me grin slightly.

Bucky Barnes doesn't have to be dead, does he? Steve's alive. Our friendship is stronger than ever. I'm an Avenger. I'm living a life I didn't realize I wanted until I was asked to fake it.

Bucky Barnes would ask her for her number. In Bucky's past, I was not shy around women. When Steve abandoned myself and his date at the Stark Expo in the 40s, his date didn't go home and cry about it. She just stuck with me. I was charismatic and engaging. Fun to be with, even.

I had a date on each arm and loved every minute of it.

Where's that confidence when I need it?

I think my Winter Soldier persona needs to thaw out a bit.

Black Widow notices me grin. And she gives me a slight smirk right back.

"Didn't see you at the last briefing," I say casually.

She gives me a critical, though warm, glance. "Have we met before?"

"No, no. I know who you are though."

She looks away, smiling. "My reputation precedes me."

"I mean, maybe," I shrug. "I might have heard you're kind of good at spying. Someone shoots the wrong guy and you chase after them and bring them to justice."

"Heard that, huh?" she looks everywhere except me, the lights, the changing floor numbers on the button panel. "Maybe I'm taking a break from spying."

"And apparently the Avenger's briefings too," I respond. The door slides open, and she steps out.

"I'm training," she says lightly, though her eyes are intrigued. "I was on the last mission. I needed a break to regroup."

The door starts to slide shut, but she shoves her hand through, stopping the automatic close and pushing the door back in. "Did I miss all the fun?" she asks.

"Listening to Tony Stark and Wade Wilson go toe-to-toe is pretty fun, if you're into that sort of thing."

"Usually, I am," she lets out a hum, nearly a chuckle. She comes across as being almost too put-together to laugh at anything. Something would have to take her by surprise in order to truly laugh. She gives me a quick glance over, and tilts her chin in my direction. "So what's your story? Homecoming soldier turned Avenger?"

"You nailed it," I reply, bracing my arm on the door so she doesn't have to hold it.

"Quite a fancy promotion for a new guy."

"There's nowhere to go but up after being technically killed by Nazis and frozen for a few decades."

She tilts her head, mistaking my tone. "I wasn't trying to insult your position here. Steve must be thrilled to have his friend back."

"I mean, yeah, sure, he's thrilled," I chuckle. "But it really did sound like you were trying to insult me, so, I guess you'll just have to take me out to dinner…"

"Or you could just shoot the wrong guy and I can track you down and bring you in," she smiles demurely and raises her eyebrows. I can't tell if she's flirting, or if it's a polite rejection.

"Look, I'd stab someone with an ice-pick if it meant more time with you," I laugh. "Fine, you don't want to take me out to dinner. That's fine. I'll take you out to dinner instead."

Her eyes widen, but she's still smiling. "You've got some guts."

"So I've been told."

"Natasha," she finally holds out her hand. I take it and shake it firmly.

"Call me Bucky," I say. "My friends do."

"Look, I've got shit to do today, shit that I am… far less interested in than I was five minutes ago." She gives me another smile, releasing my hand.

"I can promise you a more interesting time than beating a sandbag in the gym."

She gestures to the folder in my hand. "Then let me write down my number on that fancy briefing folder of yours."

"Oh, no," I pull it back from her reach. "You could have had a fancy folder all your own to scribble on, but you skipped the briefing, so…"

"Do you want my number or not?" she asks slyly.

"I don't need your number, I can find you, I'm an Avenger now," I say.

This time, she looks confused, like she can't tell if I am interested in her or not.

I've missed this.

"I'm joking," I say quickly. "I would like your number very much, Natasha."

She takes my folder out of my hands, pulls the pen from the front pocket, and scribbles her number on the inside cover.

"There," she says with finality. "Have they taught you how to use cell phones yet?"

"It can't be much harder than a microwave," I grin. "You have a nice day, Natasha."

She likes the way I say her name. I can tell.

The door slides shut over an expression that seems to say trouble.

But the good kind.

...

* * *

 **The Italian Guys - _Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

"Ti ucciderò."

It's the Italian that arrests my attention in the diner during breakfast.

I look up exhaustedly from my scrambled eggs and glass of orange juice. Uncle Ben was right, this place does attract the bad sort.

These huge Italian guys are speaking Aunt May's native language, and I only know just enough to hear something like a death threat in their words… something like "I am going to kill you." And they do not say this in jest to the bartender, cowering against his cash register.

The gun-shaped bulges in their jackets indicate enough heavy hardware to say that's exactly what they mean to do.

"Listen, I'll get you the money," says the owner - presumably, Jo, the red-headed, overweight man behind the counter who looks absolutely terrorized. "I've just gotta pay out those winners first - you know how it is…"

"You borrowed that fucking money from us first, you fucking leprechaun," snarls the biggest man closest to him.

I glance around the diner side. I'm the only customer. The pub side is empty too, except for the threatening, armed men and poor Jo. Too early for the gamblers, I expect, or even too early for the usual breakfast crowd.

I was up at five A.M. and unable to sleep again.

"I'll get you the money!" Jo says urgently. "You've got to give me a few more days to makeup the difference. I run an operation here. A good one."

"You can't run your fucking operations if you are bleeding out on the floor," says the other man. "Give us the fucking money. Just open up your cash register and give it to us. It ain't hard."

I wipe my mouth on a napkin and stand up.

"I can't!" Jo pleads.

"Do it," the biggest says, pulling his revolver from his pocket and pointing it to his skull. He's wearing a silver ring with a bright blue gemstone on it. It makes him look gaudy, privileged, and even more violent. "Do it or I blow your fucking brains out."

They don't notice me walking over.

So, Captain America wants me to be a bad guy? Fine.

I can be bad.

But that doesn't mean that Spider-Man has to die forever.

He can't expect me to turn a blind eye to a friendly diner-owner-bookie getting held up at gunpoint, right?

There is no way I would walk away from this. Never. It's not in my blood.

Maybe it's not in my current job description, but I don't think I can ever stop playing the hero.

"You two must be the Italians I keep hearing so many good things about!" I say.

Both turn to me, not startled at my presence, but absolutely flummoxed that someone would even dare to interrupt them.

They're used to getting their way in the burroughs, I guess.

"Can't you two pick on someone your own size?" I ask.

The smaller guy comes at me.

I dodge speedily to the right, gathering myself for a jump straight off the ground and landing on the counter. The little guy ran too hard in the direction I was no longer in, swings at nothing but air, and falls forward.

In one, sliding move, I shove Jo out of the way of the big man's gun, grasping the barrel in my fist and yanking it backwards out of the big man's hands.

I toss it over my shoulder, where it lands with a clatter on the floor by the swinging kitchen door. "You know," I say pleasantly, "You should really consider withdrawing money from an ATM like everyone else."

"Fuck you, kid," the big man lunges. I grab a fistful of his jacket and use his weight against him, pulling him down so hard onto the counter that his face cracks against the wooden surface. With a howl, his nose breaks, and blood spurts everywhere. He tries to pull back, and I help him, shoving him off and throwing him back onto the floor. The little guy tries to jump over his fallen figure and aim for the door, but I stick out a leg, which catches him midsection, and knocks him back onto his ass.

"Oops, my bad," I apologize cheerfully. I jump on him from the counter, pinning him effectively, and punching him hard in the face. He struggles at me like a kid in a slap fight on a playground.

I feel the big guy get up and try to grab me by the arms and haul me off my feet. I twirl out of his reach, wrap my arms around one of his beefy wrists, and spinning it back behind his back. Before his arm can break in this compromising position, he uses his free hand to swing back and punch me hard in the thigh, once, twice, three times, giving me a dead leg.

"Hey, that's not fair," I protest cheekily. I stumble, limping three steps back. The little guy tries to grab my ankle, but I put my weight on the uninjured leg and swing my dead leg out, foot colliding with his face with a horrible crunch. "Whoops! It's not - that was an accident. I don't have any control over this…"

He screams and rolls away, pushing himself to his hands and knees.

That's broken nose number two!

The big one comes swinging at me.

I dodge his blows right, and left, small enough to evade and duck.

"Stormtroopers have better aim than you," I laugh, getting in a few blows of my own to his heaving gut, three punches in, and then I go for the face.

He's several inches taller than me. I go for a solid hit, but misinterpret my angle. My fist collides with his stiff jaw, effectively knocking him so hard that it twists his head and the rest of his body follows, spinning him around and landing him horribly against the side of the counter, where his chin hits the wood and knocks his skull a second time. Barely conscious, he falls to the floor, holding his head and moaning.

The second the fist hit that strange angle of his chin, trying to aim and make up for the height distance, I held it wrong, I pushed through wrong -

I used too much of my super strength.

My own power in the punch pushes all the way through, following his twisting journey to the ground, my fist hitting him - but then moving past him - and colliding, knuckles first, into the edge of the counter, bouncing off.

Huge chunks of old wood fly in every direction.

The jarring impact of flesh on the metal pipes underneath the wooden structure meets my weak, vibrating resistance - which snaps. I feel a CRACK through my arm. Like a finger slammed in a door jam except far worse than I've ever felt before.

I gasp and withdraw my arm to my chest, the pain imploding up the singular path of nerves to the panic receptors in my brain.

I can't fight them with a broken wrist…

But I don't need to.

The crawling one goes to his friend, helping him to his feet.

"Get out of here!" screams Jo. He looks over at the Italians, faces purple with bruises, blood streaming freely from horribly crooked noses, stumbling for the other entrance to make a speedy exit. "I'll get you your money, you fucking morons!" he calls. "Come back next week for payday!"

"You're DEAD, Karate-Kid! You hear me? You're DEAD!" snarls the biggest one, choking and gurgling on his own blood.

"All of you! Get the fuck out of my diner!"

"But I…" I start. "They'll come back next week - you won't be safe…"

"No, you too, little ninja!" Jo exclaims. "Don't you get it? Don't you fucking get it? I don't want cops here, okay? You beat up anyone, someone's gotta call the cops!"

"No one has to call the cops!"

"Someone probably would have fucking heard it if that gun went off! What the fuck are you still doing here? I said GET OUT!"

"I haven't paid for my breakfast yet," I say, eyes watering with the shredding, throbbing pain. It feels like my fingers are trying to unattach themselves from my body and escape.

"Consider it paid if you never set foot in my establishment ever again!" Jo shouts.

"Fine, fine, fine, fine," I say quickly, my own confusion and fear settling in the pit of my stomach, throat bobbing, trying not to throw up with the pain.

I kick open the door and practically fall out onto the sidewalk, wavering like a drunk down and into the alleyway, where I press my back against the wall and try to breathe through the pain. Eyes streaming and chest constricted, I try to pull back my sleeve and look at it.

"Oh, oh boy, this is not good, oh that's not good," I say to myself. My arm looks misaligned, dark bruising pooling under the skin. I need to go to the emergency room and get a cast as quickly as possible so that I can hide the injury well enough until my super healing kicks in. I don't know how long it takes for a broken arm. Black eyes, sprained ankles, bruised jaw… strained or broken ribs.. These things have taken a few hours, days, at the longest, a week for the broken rib. I used to be able to hide them at school well enough. The super-fast-healing really came in handy.

But I wanted to go to the tavern tonight and make sure Jackson Brice doesn't forget my face. If I am going to get in with Vulture's crew, it has to be soon.

The sooner I can do it, the sooner I find out where Hydra has infiltrated. The sooner I can complete the mission.

I get out to the main boulevard of Greenpoint and wait in shivering, shock-induced agony at the curb until I see the gleaming yellow of a taxi. I hoist myself off the garbage can I was leaning on, holding my good arm up briefly for a wave.

The cab pulls up and I slip into the back.

"Where to?" the man asks in a heavy Iranian accent. He taps the meter and does a double take in the rear-view mirror.

"Hospital," I say through gritted teeth. "Bellevue."

"Child," the man says, leaning over the back of the seat to take a good look at me, noting the sweating forehead, the tearful eyes, the hard breathing. "I call ambulance for you," he suggests, "Lose one customer today, that's okay, money do not matter. I call ambulance for you. Yes?"

"No," I gasp, leaning back against the seat and holding my arm to my chest, barely conscious. "It's okay. Thank you. Just drive me to the hospital."

"Okay!" he says, confused, but resigned. "Not my first time, you know, I get there quick, child. We will take Queens tunnel. Fifteen minutes."

"Th-th-thank you," I breathe.

He gets me there in thirteen.

...

* * *

 **Playtime - _Natasha Romanoff_**

* * *

...

I've done a lot of strange things, but this definitely makes my top ten.

Sitting across from a man undeclared dead, one of my best friend's best friends, on a date that is actually an assignment, given to me by a man-child with a foul mouth.

Deadpool thinks Bucky Barnes never lost his taste for Hydra propaganda during the second World War. Even though he gave his life for his country and resurfaced - literally - a few weeks ago. And my job is to get him proof.

I certainly hope he's wrong. If only for the sake of seeing Wade Wilson's expression after when he realizes he has nothing more to hold over me when it comes to my relationship with Bruce.

Bruce won't let us call it that - yet.

We're just Hulk and Widow, sneaking around. A paradox. Bruce can't keep a secret and it's a miracle he's been able to so far. My whole life is made of secrets.

Here's one that I will not keep from myself.

James Buchanan Barnes is attractive to me.

If nothing more than the sexual intrigue of a man in uniform introduced to a new world with wide-eyed wonder, and having the absolute audacity to ask me out when I had him contained in an elevator. Knowing full well I could kill him if I did not appreciate his advances.

This is only a superficial attraction, but I use this to my advantage. It makes my cover second nature. The ease and uselessness of physical attraction makes Bucky Barnes misinterpret every glance.

It will be embarrassing for him when this play is over, and his record is discovered to be clean, and I have to break things off with him.

I think the "It's not you, it's me" conversation will do nicely.

Bruce did not initiate things with me - but I could never fault him for this. He didn't have to, after all. I was the one who pursued Bruce. I liked him, I found his kindness and shy demeanor attractive - more than attractive in a physical way, though there was that, too. I'm the one who blatantly suggested we shower together to conserve the hot water.

I was drawn to him the way a person is supposed to be drawn to another. Something in their heart calls out to me. And I hear it even when he changes, when he's a monster. I hear it when he sleeps. I hear it when he's sad, happy, or angry. Something beats in his chest that beats in sync in mine.

If Steve knew about this, he'd probably take me out to coffee, talk about true love, and go on a rant about his first, and how he knew it was real, and what signs I should look for to see if mine was real too. And that's precisely why I won't tell him.

Everyone would want to weigh in, and that's why no one will know. For now.

It even took awhile for Bruce to know, and he's the other half of this puzzle.

I'll never forget the conversation before Strucker's castle.

"Are you going to sing me that lullaby when the big guy gets out?" Bruce had asked, shamefully, afraid of what might happen. "It ain't going to, uh, cure me, no matter what they told you. Hulk isn't so easily put to bed."

"I can think of other ways to put you to bed," I remember telling him, holding his gaze, no matter how hard he tried to break eye contact. "If you'll let me try someday."

I remember the way he gulped, nervously, and finally responded, "Y-y-yeah. If you. If you… if you…"

"Want to?" I finished. "Like you?"

"Uh, uh..." he had stuttered. "Yes?"

"Both are correct," I had said, and I remember reaching forward for the first time and pushing my hand into his hair. It was growing longer, and silver at the temples. Age suited him so beautifully - it rarely did for others.

His calm spirit, when the Hulk wasn't around, was what I was slowly falling for. No matter what he claimed about always being angry.

It simply isn't true. I don't believe him.

I think he may, in fact, always feel a degree of sadness. Shame. But not anger.

Surprised, he had unknowingly leaned into my palm. He was craving touch of any kind. He was always the first to go for a brotherly hug when greeting the other Avengers, but always the first to draw back, to stand at the edge of a circle.

Afraid of getting too close and hurting people.

"M-m-may I kiss you?" he had asked. His chest rose and fell with real fear of my answer.

"I'd be embarrassed if you didn't," I smiled at him. I moved my hand through his hair, down the back of his neck, resting it over his shoulder like we were one step shy of waltzing like a strangely paired dance team.

He hurriedly pressed his warm lips against mine. As if I were bidding him goodbye.

As if we were the last two people on this earth, about to meet their doom. Never having a chance to explore a relationship.

But we did - we do, still.

"So what's it like?" Bucky asks, holding his fork the old-fashioned way, underhanded, as if scooping rations from a tin in the trenches. It looks charmingly out of place in this fancy restaurant he has chosen. "Being a spy for the Avengers? Must be exciting work."

"I would categorize it as violent work," I answer.

"Taking out bad guys," he smiles approvingly.

"That's one way to look at it." I lift my shoulders slightly. "Nothing is black and white - don't you agree?"

"Don't undersell yourself," Bucky says.

Evading the question. "Wouldn't dream of it," I say.

"I… I saw your file," Bucky admits. "I wasn't snooping, I swear. It was in passing. When Steve was showing me the ropes."

"So you already know everything there is to know," I give him a sarcastic look. "I must be a very boring date."

"Not at all!" he declares warmly. "The best I've had in a long time, if I may joke about it."

"You may."

He laughs. "So you've been the Avenger's personal savior time and time again, huh?"

He's keeping the focus of the conversation on me.

"Oh, is that what you noticed from my file?" I ask.

"It's the truth. How do you stay so humble?"

"I don't think I possibly can any longer," I laugh. "Not if we keep you around." I lean on the table slightly. "You do want to stick around, don't you?"

He looks down at his plate. "I feel like I belong here already."

"The pay is good, anyway," I say, unfolding my napkin absently.

"It's more than the pay, it's the…" he pauses, carefully considering his words. "It's the people."

There's three ways this could be interpreted. A lie, the truth, or a truth that covers lies. I sense truth in absence of something bigger, darker, that he doesn't say.

It could be PTSD.

It could be conditioning, a sociopath trained to say what makes him easily loved.

We're interrupted by the arrival of dessert.

The waiter sets down a tiny silver tray, on top is a strangely crooked tower of... something. Maybe it's cupcakes stacked and glued together with hard chocolate sauce, sugar-candy fans sticking out of it like butterfly wings. It's about seven inches tall, glazed, and ridiculous looking.

We both stare at it, then at each other. His expression is as unreadable as mine.

"I'm waiting for you to make your move," I nearly snort with an actual laugh. It looks like Willy Wonka and Dr. Seuss teamed up for the Great British Baking show. A reference I could make, say, if I were conversing with Deadpool, or Stark. Not this one.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Bucky breaks out into nervous laughter. "I think it's alive. If it breathes, please shoot it."

I slowly slide a spoon onto the top of the tower of sugar and taste-test it as sexily as possible.

Bucky's eyes are entranced by my mouth. Spoons are weapons, too.

"It's just cheesecake," I smile. "It's good."

"Well, thank god for that," Bucky laughs. "So you said you needed to regroup. Earlier. May I ask what happened on your last mission?" He takes a generous spoonful of this cake thing. "If you don't mind my asking."

I give him a curious look. "I don't mind." But I take a moment to think, to take a polite sip of water first. "We had to retrieve someone out of Slovakia and transport them to Sokovia."

"Rough area."

"Yes. Unstable. Ukraine is pushing for Slovakia to give them border access, but Slovakia refuses. Makes Sokovia safer - for now, anyway."

Bucky nods knowingly. "But you got the target out safely?"

"Yes. But it brought back some memories for Wanda… it may have been too soon for her. She lost her twin brother there."

"Jesus. That must have been hard for her."

"It really was. When she's hurting - she works harder, fights longer, kills faster. The mission itself was a breeze. Emotionally…"

"Not that easy."

"No. I told her we'd take a break, just the two of us. Have some girl time."

"Am I… am I taking you away from that? I didn't mean to hijack your break…"

"Not at all," I assure him quickly. "It's not a vacation. We're doing extra training. And then trying not to think about work in the evenings." I think about Vision, and keep my face neutral. "Wanda has her own distractions tonight."

"Is that what I am?" Bucky asks, looking at me shyly from beneath those baby brows, still smiling. "Your distraction."

I let it rest a moment. "Yes," I answer. "Are you alright with that?"

"I'm more than alright with that."

"Would you like to distract me again tomorrow night?"

"Oh, I can't tomorrow night, I have far more important things to do," Bucky waves me off.

I blink at him.

"I'm joking! Hell yes, I want to see you again." He holds up his glass of wine. "Here's to… not completely screwing up my first date in more than fifty years."

"Cheers," I tap my wine glass against his. The crystal sings.

"So, listen, and I know this is personal, but I'm curious about something," he asks, taking a sip of his courage and setting the glass back on the white tablecloth. "When you… when you were recruited by Shield," he avoids my gaze. "When you exchanged one regime for another. What finally made it happen for you? The change of heart?"

"That is very personal," I agree.

"I don't mean to offend."

"I'm not offended." I try to smile at him, encouragingly. But his question raises too many questions of my own, questions I know he won't answer. "An agent of Shield was supposed to eliminate me. I was a threat. And he made a different call. Even though he knew I was the most dangerous assassin in the world, he approached me - weaponless - and asked me if I would be willing to talk."

He smiles at me. It's a good story. It's also the truth.

"He briefly outlined the ideals of Shield. Then he compared it to my rep for the illegal espionage and assassination missions I had carried out for the KGB. He asked if it was what I truly wanted to do for the rest of my life."

"And it wasn't?"

"No, but no one had offered me a way out before. Recognizing an escape for the first time was… illuminating. I did not know how desperate I was to get out until I had another choice."

"You took it."

"As quickly as I could."

"How could he tell you weren't playing him?" Bucky asks with confusion. "You're the greatest spy in the world. How could he possibly know that you weren't saying yes, just to infiltrate Shield and do some damage?"

"In hindsight, he says he could read me," I shrug. "But you're right, there is no possible way he could have been sure. At the time."

"But you truly wanted to be a part of something better," Bucky adds. "It truly meant something to you."

"Not unlike what it means to you, after being trapped for so many years."

He nods, and looks away. "It does mean a lot to me. More than I can say." He looks at me swiftly. "I think we are very much alike, Natasha."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not at all. What about you?"

"No."

"So here's to… a better life, and a better world... taking out all the bad guys..." he holds out his drink again. "Oh, wait - uh - we already toasted."

"I'll drink to that anyway," I clink my glass against his a second time. "But you know if we take out all of the so-called bad guys, we're out of the job."

"Well, the job doesn't have to end, we can just… chase down good people too."

"Oh really?" I laugh.

"I'll chase you down and arrest you right now, how's that?"

"You're trouble."

I think of the way he looked at me in the elevator.

"The good kind," he smiles.

When the night ends, he doesn't kiss me.

He takes my hand and presses it to his lips, kindly. "I will see you tomorrow night, Natasha."

And then he tips an invisible hat, like a soldier boarding a train. I feel like I should be offering to write him handwritten letters and send him my portrait tucked into the folds.

"Goodnight," I say softly.

When I shut the door behind me in my apartment, I speed dial Wade Wilson.

He answers in a sing-song voice. "Sunnyside Taxidermy, you stab 'em, we'll slab 'em!"

"Wade."

"Wid!"

"That's a new one."

"How was your sexy date?"

"Too early to tell," I say firmly. "But there is something off."

"You know what? I fucking knew it. I knew I shouldn't have had that milk… I knew it expired the same day, I knew it… but I had it anyway… it tasted a little off. I've had curdled shits ever since."

"Listen to me or I will make you a eunuch."

"You were saying?"

"I mentioned our last mission, and casually noted that Ukraine had been pushing Slovakia to grant border access to Sokovia."

"That's a nice fun fact. What's the capital of Georgia?"

"Nothing about the conversation surprised him. Not one bit. He did not have a single question about Europe, none of it."

"Steve probably told him about Ultron, I don't see what that has to do with…"

"Slovakia was not a country when Barnes was fighting in Europe in the war. It was Czechoslovakia. The structures began to change in 1969, and finally broke apart to officially form the Czech Republic, Sokovia, and Slovakia in 1993."

Silence.

"Ah, the merc with a mouth realizes the value of listening," I purr. "How pleasant. While there is a chance this information has been covered by Steve, it's small. Hell, maybe Bucky found the internet and googled the 100 Historical European Border Events to catch up with."

"There's no way to fucking know unless we check his browser history - which, I for one, now feel very emotionally invested in."

"Do what you want with his browser history," I sigh. "This is a red flag, you understand."

"And you'd know all about red flags, don't you? Especially the ones with the little star, sickle, and axe…"

"It's a hammer."

"Is that a euphemism for Thor's pe…"

"It's a sickle and a hammer. The Communist symbol on the Soviet Union's flag that you're failing to describe. Your jokes would land better if you did real research."

"Don't you dare insult Wikipedia in front of me."

"I'll have more for you tomorrow."

"Wait, you're going out again TOMORROW? Just how fucking smooth is this guy?"

I hang up on him.

He tries to call again, but I let it go to voicemail.

My outgoing message is as follows;

 _Hi, you know who this is. Either I'm dead, sleeping, working, or you're Deadpool and I don't want to talk to you. Leave a message without any confidential information. Thank you._

He doesn't leave a voicemail.

...

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...

* * *

 **Personal Review Replies!**

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LooneyLovegood1981: There will be lots of Peter chapters in this story! I would say the primary point of views used in this book are Peter Parker, Bucky Barnes, Wade Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff, with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers coming in close second. But Peter's really the main character and he is my favorite so he gets a lot of screen time, haha.

scrapingskies: your reviews are giving me life! thank you so so so so much! I am so happy that you are enjoying the story. It's been my baby for a few months so I am really happy to find people as stoked about it as I am. Happy reading! :)

TheScottishLegend: Thank you so much for your review! Yeah that's one of my favorites too! That was a literal insult I overheard a guy named Andrew say to a guy named Andre when I was in college. XD Thanks so much for joining this lil' group! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

BeccaRave: Dude, starbucks is the BEST place for fangirling, I won't lie I've done plenty there myself! XD So glad you are enjoying my story! :D :D


	5. Initiation

**Warnings for this chapter: Excessive violence/whump**

* * *

 **...**

 **...**

 **CHAPTER FIVE - Initiation**

 **...**

 **...**

* * *

 **Complications -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

Dr. Paul Behr asks me what happened to my arm.

I lie.

I tell them I tripped on the edge of a carpet and caught myself by putting my hand through my Aunt's wooden trunk in the hallway. It sounds believable enough to me.

It's not a difficult lie, but when they ask me about my medical history, I answer fairly honestly. I'm too distracted. Both from the agonizing pain and the other nurse.

She stands just behind Dr. Behr, watching. She has light brown skin, dark eyes, and darker curls pulled back in a very frizzy ponytail. The hair looks as if it is trying to escape. Her eyes remain clinical, even a bit judgmental. Her slender figure swims inside the blue scrubs, and she's tall, but looks young. She seems really, really familiar. And my age.

Her sticker name tag simply says _MJ._

I can't take my eyes off her.

Dr. Behr explains that she's a nurse in training. The first year program includes a practicum; shadowing him and the other nurses for full 12 hour emergency room shifts.

I nod numbly when he says something else and leaves the room.

MJ stares at me. "Did you hear anything he said?" she asks.

Nothing that didn't relate to her. "No."

Silence.

"I call it a boxer's fracture," she says.

"What?"

"A boxer's fracture," she repeats. "I've seen it in my neighborhood too many times to count." She slowly walks over to me and looks over the bulging bruise. "It's from punching someone or something really, really, really hard."

Her long lashes flick up as she meets my gaze.

I gulp. "I didn't punch anybody."

She snorts. "Sure you didn't." She pulls open a drawer and begins pulling out supplies.

Dr. Behr returns. "Time for an x-ray, my friend," he says kindly.

"Keep me as long as you want," I say. MJ shoots a curious glance in my direction.

After the pictures come back, Dr. Behr says that he will "Leave me in Nurse Jones's capable hands."

I try not to give him a dopey smile at that. I am enduring a new agony - not pain, or fear, but embarrassing, awkward silence. A silence that, if I were going to college like a normal Midtown High graduate, I would try to fill with questions about school and if she wanted to study together.

Studying together could lead to asking her out on a date.

But not in this life.

"Uh… Nurse.." I begin.

"I'm really not a nurse yet. I'm a student," she says. "Just call me MJ."

"Do you like doing this stuff?" I ask.

She raises her eyebrows at me. "Would I be here if I didn't?"

"Maybe," I almost shrug, but catch myself. I want to hold still if I don't want to start crying like a baby in front of her. "Lots of people have jobs they don't like."

"This is a little different," she says. "It's for school." She walks back to my side and very gently lifts my arm off of the edge of the reclining exam chair.

"T-true," I stutter. A blood-hot twinge of pain echoes up my arm and into my shoulder. "O-ow," I grimace, squinting my eyes shut tight and lowering my chin to my chest. "Shit. Shit. _Shit._ "

"Take it easy," MJ slowly reaches over and touches the back of her warm hand to my forehead. My skin flushes at the contact. "That stuff we gave you earlier will start kicking in soon."

"Are you taking my temperature the old fashioned way?" I ask, letting out a hoarse laugh between the throbbing, rolling-pin sensations of dark pain.

She withdraws her hand quickly and keeps wrapping the strange cotton material around my arm. "No, I'm sorry. That was unprofessional of me. I thought it would feel comforting." She steps back to the counter, whispering "... _shit…"_ under her breath.

"I did," I assure her quickly. "It felt… nice. I didn't mind. At all. Please don't feel bad."

She glances at me. "I'm still new at this. And you look pretty freaking lost." She bites her lip and looks away, muttering. "Also unprofessional of me to say. First cute guy of the day and I forget everything I'm not supposed to do."

I can't help myself. "You think I'm cute?"

She shakes her head and smiles to herself, but doesn't answer. After the cotton, the wraps a layer of padding.

"Ow," I whisper.

"Try to think of something else," she says softly. "Almost done."

I stare up at her. I don't think of anything else except her. She looks so familiar, like someone I should have had in my life all along, someone that I didn't realize was missing until I found her again.

The next layer is plaster, and messier. Every so often, I hiss or wince, and she simply says "Shh… almost done." She keeps her voice even and kind, keeping me calm and distracted.

"Can I ask you a question?" I ask shyly when she's finished.

"Are you going to ask me for my number?" she asks, when she wraps the final layer of neon green bandage over the plaster.

"I… I…"

I wasn't going to, but suddenly I don't want to ask my actual question, which was if maybe I knew her from somewhere. Maybe my old neighborhood, maybe Midtown, maybe the Shield academy…

I pounding in my ears, my face hot with embarrassment. "I would - like to - but…"

The life I'm living now -

It's so dangerous…

It's not something…

If anyone found out, if I got in trouble…

"...but - it's my," I try, "I mean, I'm a…"

She slowly turns and looks at me with a look of stark realization.

"Holy shit," she says. "It's you."

"Huh?"

"I know that stutter."

"What?"

"You went to Midtown Science, didn't you?"

"Yes," I say hesitantly. "You did too? I… I thought you looked familiar, but..."

"You were the guy always hanging out with Ned Leeds."

"I… I would think… I'm sorry I don't one-hundred-percent remember you," I say sadly.

"That's because all you ever did was make ga-ga eyes at Liz Allen."

My homecoming date. It took a lot of suppressing my self-preservation to ask her to homecoming. I had planned to ask her to be my girlfriend. My first girlfriend.

The next week after homecoming, Liz informed me that her parents were splitting up, and she and her mom were moving to Oregon.

Haven't seen nor heard from her since. Shortest relationship ever.

I try to give her a cheeky smile. "Were you stalking me or something?"

"I wasn't obsessed with you," she answers in a low, serious tone. "I'm just very observant."

Something clicks. "You were on the decathlon team, weren't you? With Liz."

"Ding, ding, point to Midtown."

A color code is called out over the intercom system. I didn't catch which one, but MJ becomes very serious.

"I have to go right now," she says, "You're - you're finished. Someone will be by to check you out officially." She rushes for the door, and peers back at me. "Sorry, Peter. Maybe I'll see you around."

"I hope so."

"Hope you feel better."

She doesn't smile as she leaves.

...

* * *

 **The Vulture Strikes -** _ **Adrian Toomes**_

* * *

...

It's a slow night at Punzi's.

When I step in the door, the women huddled together at the table closest to the door stop talking. They look at me, and then back at the young kid drinking juice at the bar, and then me again.

Sometimes I enjoy the looks of respect. It's respect I've earned.

Not today. Today, I don't see customers, I see dames that are in the way. They may overhear the screaming and say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

"Take an early night, ladies," Jackson says to them.

They gather their purses quickly and leave the tavern. This is observed by the boy, but he only gives a nod to Jackson in greeting, like he's too tired to say hello. He returns to his drink.

"That's the guy," Jackson whispers to me. "The one I met yesterday."

"He doesn't look much more than a few years older than my nephew," Aaron says slowly. "You sure you want to get innta this, boss?"

I give him a critical glance. "You heard what happened at Jo's this morning. You bet your sorry ass I want to _get into it._ Go home if it makes you uncomfortable."

I walk over purposefully to the counter and slide into the stool next to Benny's nephew. His arm is in a neon green cast. Makes him look twelve.

Schultz slowly locks the door and turns on the _CLOSED_ sign.

Jackson and Aaron sit at a table. Elliott gives us one long look, and then discreetly disappears to the kitchen.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask the boy.

He gives me an uninterested look, his gaze searching. Doesn't place me.

"No?"

"You met the Shocker the other night," I say.

"Mr. Brice," the boy looks over his shoulder at Jackson Brice and Aaron Davis. "Yeah, I met him."

"You're Benjamin Parker's nephew. Peter."

He looks up again. "Yeah. You knew him too?"

"Fastest oil change in New York," I answer. "Never charged me a dime for it."

"Sounds like Uncle Ben," he looks back at his drink.

Silence.

He doesn't ask me for my name. Too scared? Already knows it?

"I'm Adrian Toomes," I say.

"Peter Parker," he responds sullenly.

"Come with me," I say, leaving the stool.

He makes no move to follow.

"I am not asking, Pete," I say firmly.

I watch his shoulders hitch up with nerves. He follows me like a beaten golden retriever through the booths in the back.

We go through the doorway into the pool room. Jackson follows us in and stands in the corner quietly. Aaron maintains the front entrance. Schultz stands guard between the booths and the pool room.

A single light hangs over the green felt, reflecting in the black oak-paneled walls. I lean against the pool table and cross my arms over my chest.

"Those two Brooklyn guys you beat the shit out of at Jo's this morning," I tell him. "They work for some rivals of mine. An Italian gang that have been an itch in my hide for a long time."

He looks hopeful at this. "You're welcome, then," he says.

"Not so much," I continue. "Y'see, what you don't understand, is that these guys are the real shit, not a group of tweakers fighting over dealers. This is a real gang. The last remnants of the mob that goes way back to when I was younger than you."

He blinks in surprise. "You mean like a mafia?"

"They're sending some guys here to come and kill you," I explain calmly. "Some of the guys in their gang are enhanced - we're talking one touch of their skin and you turn into stone, and then they take-you-apart-with-axes-enhanced."

Peter gulps.

"They will kill you," I say. "They will kill you unless I stop them with money." I raise my eyebrows at him. "Do you want me to stop them?"

"Is this something I can take care of personally?" he asks sheepishly. "I'm pretty fast."

Ballsy.

"Jo told us you did some martial arts shit," I respond. "That's cute an' all, but compared to these guys, you're roadkill."

Peter doesn't answer at first. He picks up the white cue ball and rolls it absently across the table. "Um…" he says. "I guess I don't really know what to say in these kinds of situations." He looks up, eyes fierce. "Guess I'll have to give them a fighting chance, huh?"

Sounds like Benny.

The only problem with Benny was - I had my suspicions about why he was so helpful to my crew. Why he was helpful to anyone at all. No one could be that generous with their time and money - there had to be a catch. Like maybe he was a fucking informant.

I wonder if it's hereditary.

"Search him," I say, tilting my head at Jackson.

"For WHAT?" Peter squeaks. Jackson gets into his face and starts pushing his hands against his sleeves, shoulders, jacket pockets. "I didn't do anything wrong. All I knew was that I saved that guy from some goons trying to hold him up!"

"I am LOOKING," I say loudly, jabbing a finger into his collarbone. "For contraband. Wire? Audio? A surveillance van parked a block away listening to everything you say through a chip in your pocket?"

"I don't have anything like that, I swear," Peter says uncomfortably. Jackson snorts.

"If you're anything like your angel-hearted uncle, you might have a big, fucking, mouth."

His eyes grow wide. "What are you accusing him of, exactly?"

"Take your shoes off," Jackson turns him around roughly and lifts the back of his jacket, checking his waistband. "I said shoes, Parker!"

Peter tugs his sneakers off, his eyes huge like a puppy who just got told no for the first time. Apparently he just really reminds me of a dog. Maybe that's good. Dogs can be trained.

Jackson examines the shoes thoroughly.

"Your uncle got shot, s'what I heard," I say.

"You heard right."

By the look in his eyes, I can tell he was there when it happened. "Did he suffer?"

Peter's eyes turn to steel. "Yes. But he didn't say so."

"That was his problem," I say, watching with cold interest as Jackson pushes Peter against the table, running a hand down each leg and checking his socks.

"Empty your pockets," he commands.

Peter pulls out a flimsy wallet made of duct tape and a very old flip cell phone. It was probably his uncle's. Poor kid can't afford a new, fancy smartphone like his peers. That had to be embarrassing in school.

"What do you mean by problem?" repeats Peter. "What exactly did you think was wrong with him?"

Jackson looks through the wallet and finds a driver's license and a piece of paper with a bank account number written on it. He leaves them on the pool table.

"That man could have been anything," I respond. "Instead he was a car mechanic who made nothing and died young - leaving his wife and kid penniless." I shake my head. "I can forgive a man a lot of things. Not that."

I didn't expect Jackson to find anything anyway. I don't think this one is cut out to be Shield material - even if he did get good grades at that fancy-fuck high school that my daughter dropped out of when she and her mom hit the road.

"He didn't leave us on purpose," Peter says quietly.

"He's clean," Jackson says.

"Check the cast," I reply.

Peter preemptively flinches, almost as if he expects Jackson's violence, and resigns to do nothing about it.

So... that means he learns faster than his uncle.

Jackson grabs the cast and thrusts it down to the wooden edge of the pool table. With the slam, Peter cries out in pain and falls to his knees.

The cast doesn't break. Jackson gives it another hard hit, grasping Peter's wrist in his hands and driving it down on the hard surface - one, two, three times - and with a splintering sound, the plaster breaks into large chunky pieces.

Peter makes an inhuman, high-pitched shriek, face red and tears streaming down his face. "I would - a - just - cut it - off - for you," he gasps. "If you had… just… asked!" He looks away and dry-heaves.

Jackson searches through the broken cast. "Eh, nothing here, boss," he says casually.

Peter starts to slip to the floor. I grab him by the back of his jacket and haul him up, but he can barely stand. He clings to the side of the table, resting his chin on the edge and using his good elbow to try and brace himself, like someone who has fallen through ice tries to freeze themselves to the shelf to keep from drowning. His inhales are ragged, swallowing back his groans.

"Let's leave this pussy alone," Jackson says dismissively. "This is a waste of time."

"This curiosity I have," I say, ignoring Jackson. I lean down to his ear, "About what brings you to my neighborhood is driving me crazy. I never really knew anything truly personal about your Uncle… that bothered me. When he got popped it made me suspicious. And then along comes his nephew - good grades, Shield undergrad training… and, what then? You threw it all away with a temper tantrum? At a job interview? What the fuck were you thinking?"

I pace for a moment, making a half circle behind him, watching him for signs that he'll fight back.

Nothing. He's just trying to get a hold of his hyperventilating.

"See the thing I just can't put my finger on," I say, "Is what made you crawl back this way when you got out of prison?"

He can't answer yet.

"What would stop Captain fucking America from snatching up a talented, innocent thing like yourself and throw you at me to see if you stick?" I continue. "Can you answer that?"

"None - of - that - is what happened," Peter finally gasps out. "I've never - met - the - guy. I interviewed with… HR."

I pick up his tennis shoe from the floor, bending it in my hands and testing the durability of the sole. "Do you swear to me on your Uncle's grave that you aren't an Agent of Shield?"

"Yes," Peter answers.

I grab the back of his shirt collar to hold him up, then slam the shoe down with all of my strength onto his already-purple arm. "ARE YOU AN AGENT OF SHIELD?"

"NO - NO - NO," Peter shouts in hoarse agony, his voice giving out completely.

I hit his arm a second time. "THEN FUCKING SAY IT."

"I'm - NOT - an, an, an," he sobs. I let go of his jacket and he falls to the floor fully, cradling his arm to his chest. "Not - an - Ag… Ag… Shield… Agent…"

I toe his prone body with my boot. "Are you going to try and use Andre to buy guns on the black market?"

"No… no… no…"

"Good because he is a fucking idiot," Jackson laughs.

"All right, all right, that's enough," I pull out my wallet, withdraw a few one hundred dollar bills, and put them on the pool table next to his discarded possessions. "Look, sorry, kid. Had to be done. Have to make sure of these things. Here's some money. Go get your arm taken care of."

"What about the Italian guys?" asks Jackson. "They wanted him for breakfast."

I give him a cold look. "I thought you said you liked this kid."

He shrugs. It's irrelevant. "So he makes a nice first impression."

"He can't do shit with that arm," I say. "We're going to take care of it."

I look down at Peter, now struggling to brace himself on one hand and his knees. He presses his forehead into the ragged commercial carpet, trying to collect himself. "Don't worry about those Italians coming for you, kid," I say. "Consider it my apology. I'll handle them."

I gesture for Jackson to follow me out. Schultz joins my side as we go back out to the main bar area.

Aaron looks like someone stuck a hot poker up his ass. He and Elliott are gossiping about Murphy, one of the regulars.

"Just see that he does it, all right?" Aaron asks. "Murphy will do anything with the right bribes."

Elliott rolls his eyes. "Of course, of course." He glances up at me. "Any chance we could turn that OPEN sign back on?" he asks tiredly. "I've got regular customers, Toomes."

"You trying to tell me what to do, motherfucker?" I snap at him, my blood pumping still from the little stint in the pool room. It's a bad reaction, I'll need to play it off in jest.

Elliott gapes. "Sorry… sir… I didn't mean…"

"Only kidding," I laugh. I nod at Aaron to turn the lights back on. As soon as the door lights up, Murphy comes swaggering in, every inch of his likely diabetes and a broad smile on his face. "Eve'nin, lads," he greets.

"Murph," I greet. "How's your mom doing?"

Murphy replies with a solemn cross-motion over his forehead and chest. Got to love the Irish Catholics. "She's... on'r way oot."

I nod with sympathy. "We all are. Act accordingly."

My crew follows me back out to the black SUV parked outside.

"What the fuck is this parking job?" I mutter, looking at the distance from the curb.

"We were in a hurry," Jackson scoffs.

"You drive, Schultz," I say. "Go sit in the back, Jackson."

Jackson rolls his eyes and gets in the back with Aaron. Schultz and I get in the front.

The city begins to stream by through the windows glittering with raindrops. The SUV could use a tune up, the engine sounds a little worn. We certainly do miss having Benjamin Parker on call.

"Do you think that kid could be trusted?" I ask.

"As far as I could throw a ten foot pole," Jackson exclaims.

"Who's reliable these days, anyway?" Aaron offers.

"His uncle Benny was," Schultz says. "You didn't know him."

Aaron shrugs. "No, I didn't. But the kid seems like a good enough kid. He just needs someone to tell him what to do. Doesn't matter who it is."

"He'd made a good dog," Jackson laughs. "Play fetch and shit."

Now I remember why I keep Jackson around. He's the older dog.

"So what can I have him fetch, huh?" I ask. "That's the question. Do we want to use him?"

Silence.

"I don't know that we should make a decision on a trigger-happy kid just because his uncle was a good guy," Schultz says uneasily.

"Wasn't packing, though," Jackson corrects. "Sought us out _because_ he needed a gun."

"That means he knows where to look, anyway," Aaron adds. "He knows quality. Could have gone to Andre's Puerto Rican guys. He didn't."

I look over the back of the seat at him. "Davis, when you needed a gun, you came to us. How'd you hear about us?"

"A guy that had been fired from Mac Gargan's crew. He was bitter. Wanted to point as many people as possible in your direction instead of Mac's."

I grin. "Bitter people can be trusted to act on that bitterness." I turn to Schultz. "If we drop some hints that Benjamin Parker had our protection, and someone else did him in despite our best efforts…"

"I wouldn't do that, boss," Aaron says carefully.

"Make him feel like he's honoring his uncle's memory by joining us," Schultz suggests.

"Why the FUCK do we even want this kid?" Jackson exclaims with annoyance. "He's barely out of diapers! Like what the actual fuck are we still having this debate for?"

I turn around again. "Let me put it to you simply, Brice, so that your small mind can compute it. That kid today - single-handedly and without a weapon - took out two dangerous hitmen. In one foolish move, he protected one of my assets, ended this stupid playground taunt with the Italians, and got into my good graces. Does that make some fucking sense to you?"

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yah, sure, yah, so much sense," he responds sarcastically.

God, I hate this guy.

"We need some young, spry guys that can get in and get out of situations fast," Schultz says. "The work at Jo's was impressive to say the least. And the kid's clean, right? He isn't addicted to coke, meth, or heroine… he doesn't drink… most of the guys in this business have their vices. This kid's vice is picking fights."

"Lesser of many, many evils," Aaron urges.

"Blah, blah, blah," Jackson mumbles.

"Let's give him a try," I say. "A trial run. What do you think?"

"Can't hurt," Schultz says.

"All right, let's offer him a little informal job interview," I say. "And let's hope it turns out better than his last one."

...

* * *

 **...**

 **Hey readers! I don't know if fanfiction is alerting you properly when a new chapter is posted, feel free to drop me a line if not. And by line I mean message or a review. I love hearing from my readers! How are you guys? Got any fun plans for Halloween tomorrow? Have any of you seen The Departed movie? It's still on Netflix! It was so much fun reading the script so thoroughly to translate into the Avengers world. And now that I'm done writing it, I miss it! There's no sequel to the Departed so I don't really think there can be a sequel to this one. Thoughts on the Vulture? Isn't he just the WORST?**

 **LooneyLovegood1981 - dude, that's so funny because I didn't like Natasha and Bruce either until I had to write them. Once I started writing them as a couple, it started to make sense to me. And now I ADORE them. :)**

 **...**

* * *

 **You can follow me for random fandom postings on instagram - pippin_strange**

 **Or on my personal account - myapapaya_adventures**


	6. Dangerous Games

...

...

 **CHAPTER SIX - Dangerous Games**

...

...

* * *

 **Emergency Room -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

I wake up because of the orange lights flashing over my face. I blearily open my eyes and see eerie streetlamps passing by in succession as we cross a bridge.

I'm lying on my back on the backseat of an old Buick. It smells like old people.

I try to lift my head, but I'm dizzy. "What… what…"

A complete stranger adjusts the rear view mirror so it's pointed back at me. "Morning, Cranberry," he says.

"Who - who… who are you?" I whisper, completely disoriented.

"Murph," he responds. "Murphy McGraith."

I blink. "I've never… seen…"

"Noo, we ne'r met. Init' odd now? Elliott tol' me y' got inna a bad knock-out a'tis bar'n didn't want copper's'bout. Offersup free drinks for a'wik to haul ya s'rry ass to the docs."

I groan. "My arm…"

"Yeh twon't wanta move'it, lad, did'it before'n you passed right fookin' out."

"Ugh."

"Won' be a minit now!"

Tears stream freely from my eyes. This was a mistake. This whole thing has to be a mistake. There can't be any way that Captain America thought they'd violently haze me just to search for signs that I had radio connection with Shield. Like an undercover agent wired for collecting audio evidence in one of those cable cop shows.

There's no way.

No way, no way, no way…

The car's brakes are badly squeaking, and a red and white glowing sign passes overhead. Murphy leaves the engine running, jumps out of the driver's seat, swings around and opens the back door. "Com'on oot, laddie, morph'n xanax await'chya," he promises.

Somehow, and I don't know how at this point, I find myself wobbling down the sidewalk beneath the overhang of the emergency room entrance. The automatic doors slide open, shut, open, shut, as others come and go.

Someone stops near me.

"Peter?" MJ asks. "What the actual hell?"

I look at her blearily. "Hi."

She looks at Murphy's car. "Who's that?"

Suddenly his tires peel out, skidding on the asphalt and sending plumes of burnt rubber smell all around us. He disappears out of the lot entrance and back into New York traffic faster than I could tell her his name.

"No one," I whisper. I sound guilty of something. Maybe lying.

"Where's your cast?"

"Busted it," I answer.

"Don't move," she says. She hitches a bookbag over her opposite shoulder so her hands are free, rushes back to the entryway, and comes back with a wheelchair. She pushes it up behind my knees.

"SIT," she commands.

I do as she says.

She pushes me through the double automatic doors and rushes me right past the desk, ducking her head slightly and avoiding the busy nurses and patients milling around and doing their own thing. She glances casually into each room until there's an empty one, pushes the wheelchair inside, and then draws the curtains with a _shink_ over the glass door.

"I literally put that cast on you THIS morning," she says, looking actually angry. She very slowly lifts my arm and examines the swelling.

"Uh…" I answer. "You're... not... wrong."

"So what the hell happened between now and then?" her eyes dart to my face.

"I... can't tell you."

"Someone did that to you," she says stiffly. "Right?"

I shake my head and look away.

"What sort of trouble are you in, Peter?" she asks. "Do you need me to call someone? Your parents? Wait - shit - no parents - you live with your Aunt, right? I could call her. Give me her number and I'll call her."

I reach out with my good arm and grasp her wrist as it reaches for the phone in her pocket. "Do - not - call anyone," I say. "It's fine. I have someone I can call."

"Who, the asshole that just abandoned you here?"

"No, I do have someone," I say urgently. I hold her gaze. "I promise. Trust me."

"Hmph," she snorts doubtfully. "I need to get you some ice and grab you an intake form." She sighs. "Again."

"Sorry to put you through the trou…"

"No," she interrupts. "Don't you dare apologize. That's not why I said that." She gently sets my arm back on the armrest of the chair. "Whatever is going on… whatever sort of trouble you're in… I don't want this to happen _again."_

"Well, I don't exactly want that either," I say sarcastically.

Her face brightens a little bit. "You haven't broken your sense of humor, at least."

"It just seems to stick around."

"Ass," she says. She goes to the drawer and begins pulling supplies out for another cast. "You know," she says, "If you had joined the decathlon team, we may have been friends in high school."

"I was really busy."

"With what?"

"Everything else."

"What are you busy with now?" she asks. "What are you _doing_ Peter?"

Going undercover for the Avengers, which sounded so heroic and fun three weeks ago...

But it's dangerous and horrible and it's only my second day.

But I'm also getting paid for it… which makes it just a job.

Just work.

It's just work.

It's just work.

It's just work.

It's just work… just work…

She's staring at me, eyes wide.

Oh shit. I was repeating it out loud. I sound like I'm on drugs.

She kneels down into my eyeline. "Just work, huh?" she says quietly.

"That's all it is," I take deep breaths. _Calm down, Peter! You just look like a mess now!_

MJ looks at my arm, and back at me. "Maybe it's time to quit."

"Can't quit."

"Can't or won't?"

"Won't, either." I give her a swollen grin. "It's got a great retirement plan."

MJ hears someone calling out in the hall, and then stands up, running over and peering around the curtain. Then she returns.

"We need to get that x-rayed again, they said the room is free," she says. "Just in case."

"You don't have to…"

"No, we really do. Let's make sure it was _only_ the cast that got busted, and not another breakage somewhere in an already broken bone."

"If you say so."

"I DO say so," she snaps, but with a devil-may-care-smile. "Whether you like it or not, I'm going to help you."

"Why weren't we friends before?"

"Cuz you guys were losers."

I _hmph_ with a short laugh. "What makes me less of a loser now?"

"Maybe because I don't have any friends."

"So I'm your new friend by default because there's no one else."

"Precisely." She grabs the handles of the wheelchair. "Ready?"

"Guess so." She moves the curtain and pushes me through the door.

"And what a pair we make," she says, more to herself than me.

"You never did give me your number."

"You never asked."

"I really thought I did."

"I think we got interrupted."

"So? You could have written it on my cast."

"Yeah but then you broke it so how serious could you really be about calling me?"

"Maybe you could write it on the arm that isn't broken."

"I'll take it under advisement."

"I could just break a leg next time."

"Sorry, I don't think I'll be working that night."

"There's plenty of room to write your number on my leg."

"How attractive."

"I don't really know if you're trying to insult my legs or not."

"Yep."

"It just occurred to me I'm delirious right now and this is all just really - embarrassing?"

"You nearly passing out on the sidewalk is _embarrassing_. This is what I call lucky."

"I'm not that lucky."

"Clearly. I've never heard of someone breaking their cast on day one. How'd you do it?"

"You just won't give up, will you?"

"Not till you tell me."

"What if I said I fell into a pool table?"

"You already tried a hope-chest in a hallway, so I'd say, unlikely."

"Except it's the truth!"

"Sounds like a really intense game of pool."

I falter. "I won. I think."

"Do you even know how to play?"

"No… I guess I never learned. Is it that obvious?"

"I'll teach you sometime."

"Maybe when I have two working arms."

"No, Peter, tonight. I'm teaching you how to play pool tonight. At this nice karaoke bar they allowed us in even though we're eighteen. Get with the program."

"I dunno, this pool table looks an awful lot like a hospital bed."

"It's going to make our game really weird when I tell you to go get in the bed."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"I don't flirt with patients."

"I think you just used 'bed' and 'game' in the same sentence. That qualifies."

"I would never. So. Um. In all seriousness? I need you to lay down on it anyway. I've got to go find the guy that runs this thing."

"Can we pick this up where we left off though?"

"You can certainly try. Hang tight. I'll be back."

I watch MJ leave the lab and the door swings shut behind her. I turn my head and slip into an immediate doze.

I wake up when the technician arrives.

When he pushes me back to the exam room, there's a different nurse waiting for me, a middle aged man with a silver beard and kind eyes.

"The students had to go home for the night," he says. "They aren't allowed the overtime. It's just practicum. Sorry. I know she said she was an old friend from school. She would've liked to have said goodbye. But… rules are rules. We can't have anyone on the floor after they've already punched out. Safety reasons."

"Oh. I - I get it. That's okay."

I am more disappointed than I care to admit.

When the new nurse starts putting together the new cast, I notice a sheet of printer-paper tucked in the clipboard with my intake form.

It's a sketch done in ballpoint pen of two people playing pool. One looks like a dork in glasses, and other a beautiful, curly-haired beauty.

"Me and you sometime" is says underneath, with a phone number.

I don't save the number in my phone. I fold the paper over and over again until it's in the smallest squares I can manage, and then I put it in the tiniest inner-pocket in my jeans.

When I memorize her number, I'll rip that part off and throw away, but I'll hang the picture in the garage. Something to look forward to. I'll call her when this is all over and I can trust whatever I do will not endanger anyone. When it can't possibly hurt anyone except me.

...

* * *

 **Dark Elf Evidence -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

* * *

...

I'm in the computer lab, cross-referencing known increased activity in Hydra locations with flight arrivals from D.C. Nothing I don't know about already, but I have to make it look good. And who knows, maybe I'll remind myself of something that will help Steve.

I want to help Steve.

I open my phone and send off a quick text message. _I think we should try another dessert that doesn't look like an endangered species._

I wait a few moments, not really anticipating a response, but hoping for one anyway.

* * *

Natasha - _There's a lot more of those nowadays._

You - _I just learned about what's happening with the polar bears. It's very upsetting._

 _Ice cream tonight?_

Natasha - _Ice cream and polar bears in one go?_

You - _I'm not being insensitive. We're honoring them. By having ice cream at coney island._

Natasha - _You know, if you're not careful, your humor is going to fall off the wagon into Deadpool territory._

You - _Will you pull me back from the brink? I'm slipping away. Help me stay on this wagon._

Natasha - _in Coney Island?_

You - _Coney Island_

Natasha - _It's going to look pretty different than when you last saw it. Steeplechase is gone now._

You - _Can we still get ice cream there?_

Natasha - _Ice cream, yes. A dignified experience, no._

You - _Think of the polar bears, Natasha._

Natasha - _Fine. For the bears._

You - _You're a hero! Pick you up at 7._

* * *

"Listen, we got somethin' we need to check out," Sam Wilson leans in the door.

"Something more interesting than airports in Germany?" I ask distractedly, turning my phone off.

"How about murder?"

I glance at him. "Not so interesting. Let the police handle it."

"They want us."

"Why? Does it involve an enhanced?"

"MAFIA murder," Sam tries again.

"That's more interesting... But I'm busy. If the police need extra manpower, call SHIELD."

"Shield is already there. 084."

I slam the laptop shut. "Fine. I'm listening. What makes a mafia hit qualify as an 084?"

"Mafia members murdered by alien technology."

"Alien."

"Cap didn't catch you up on the visits from space while you were iced up?"

"No, no, he did." I slide the laptop away from me, getting to my feet. "But I'm unfamiliar with it. You'll need to fill me in."

"He told you about Greenwich."

"What happened in Greenwich?"

"We weren't called in. Thor handled that one."

"Thor?"

"God of Thunder and Shit?"

"I've heard of the God of Thunder," I sigh. "The shit is new."

Like Sam said, SHIELD had already been summoned. It was their agent that called us.

Rumlow again. The guy's a tick.

"Local police contacted Shield when it looked like the guys had been blown up with that same Dark Elf shit from Greenwich."

I give him a look. "You'll have to elaborate what that looks like for me. The amateur cellular footage on YouTube didn't yield many results."

Rumlow holds out his hands in a mystical, voodoo sort of way. "Like shadowy breakfast cereal."

"Sure." I stop myself from rolling my eyes. My phone in my pocket buzzes with an incoming text. I slide it unlocked with my thumbprint and take a look at the message.

 _CAW CAW._

I slide the text over to the delete folder faster than a blink.

I look at the twisted bodies coated in volcanic-looking, crusting material, their heads turned nearly backwards by the forces of the blasts, small craters around their bodies where they hit the pavement.

We're in an empty lot not far from the Jo's Diner where I met up with the Vulture. Hidden on three sides by graffiti-covered walls, blocked from the sidewalk by a chain link fence. Each slab of pavement becoming cracked and growing plenty of dandelions and other weeds between them. Even in the heart of NY, it's remote. Abandoned.

"Execution style," I say.

Sam nods at the way the body's hands are tied behind their backs, knees still bent even after falling. One of the hands on the biggest fellow is missing, though. Whether blown away by the blast or taken as a trophy, forensics would figure it out. I don't honestly care.

"So who takes them out with this sort of weapon, huh?" he says. "My money is on Vulture."

"Or someone who bought a gun from him," I muse.

"He keeps the best weapons for himself," Sam scoffs.

"Oh, he told you that, did he?" I snap. "During all the conversations you had with him? He just - waltzed right up and explained his whole evil plan, huh?"

"Y'know I hear you? I hear the sarcasm. I get what you're trying to do with it, but it's not so appreciated. We could have brought him in but we got bigger fish to fry."

Rumlow steps over again. "Facial recognition picked up the records. They're brothers. Marco and Peter Russo, hailing from Brooklyn. They have a list of priors that stretches into the next century."

My phone buzzes again, this time it's a phone call from a blocked number. "Hang on a moment, I'm sorry," I walk across the pavement and slip between the chain link fence to the sidewalk on the other side, answering the call on the way. "Sir," I answer, expecting Pierce.

"Did you get my present?" Adrian Toomes chuckles darkly.

"No sir," I say in a monotone.

"What, come on, don't you want to impress your new friends over there?"

"Oh, you don't have to put yourself out," I say, trying to make my side of the conversation - if overheard - sound like anything else. "It's very thoughtful of you, but I'm fine."

"The gun that busted them up was sold to their own boss. The mafia daddy, if you will. You'll never guess who it is."

"You shouldn't have," my smile is strained. Vulture's interference with anything is unwelcome, at best. "I look forward to thanking you in person."

"Vanchat."

"Is that a person, or a place?"

"It's THE person. He tries to PARTICIPATE in what I SPECIALIZE in."

"That's what all of this comes down to?" I ask. "A market rivalry?"

I notice Sam beginning to approach the fence, winding his fingers in a circular motion as if to urge me to wrap it up.

"Look, the gun is on his person," says Toomes. "He's three blocks from you. You'll find his home address in the pocket of the biggest Russo brother. Follow the clues and you'll have your man and a promotion."

"They don't do those sorts of things here."

"What? You don't think you could wield that star-spangled shield? I could see it. Same mantle, new face. Captain Barnes. Has a nice ring to it."

"Tell your mom I said hi," I say; Sam finally coming close enough to overhear. I give him a look that seems to say I am not enjoying this phone call at all, which is true enough. "I gotta go, I'm working," I say quickly. "Yes, yes, just, tell your mom I said hi. We'll have to catch up later. Duty calls."

I hang up with a sigh and rejoin Sam.

"We found something in their pockets," he says. "An address. Think maybe that's where they were meeting the guys with the guns before they got popped?"

"As much as I hate to agree with you, I'd say it's likely."

"Think we'll actually go home with a Dark Elf matter-altering handgun?"

"Do you think we will?"

"Hell no, we ain't that lucky."

"Then it's a bet."

"How much?"

"Oh, no, not money."

"What do you want?"

"Walking back into that tower with gun in-hand and personally handing it over to Tony Stark and Bruce Banner."

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Sam chortles. "You're on."

I look forward to handing that gun over to Stark and Banner. I like the idea of people like Wade Wilson and Sam Wilson shutting their mouths for a damn second and looking at me like a fellow Avenger instead of Fibber McGee.

It occurs to me that neither of them would know who that is.

...

* * *

 **Wired -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I wake up several times throughout the night with my arm throbbing and my throat just shy of a nightmarish shout. I don't really remember what the dreams are except that I think I'm getting arrested again after I've completed my mission and instead of bringing me into the Avengers like he promised, Captain America stands silently by and lets them take me away. They ask him if what I say is true that I'm undercover and he sent me here - he shakes his head, says he's never seen me before… I shout that he set me up…

I disappear into the system forever, unsung hero and Aunt May always wonders what happened to me, never hears from me again… I die in prison, old and alone...

I bolt awake at the sound of a knock on my garage door.

Great, another stress dream.

I struggle out of the blanket, padding over to the smaller door. My boxers and white T shirt crinkle with static from the slippery material of the mattress and the sleeping bag.

I finally found the deadbolt key last night, resolving in a slightly fevered state after my taxi ride back from the hospital that I absolutely HAD to find the key so that I wouldn't have to open the huge door. There's not an easy way to feel secure here if you have to lift a massive rolling, metal door with only one working arm every time someone pays a visit.

I look through the peephole, undo the deadbolt, and peer out blearily.

"Yeah?" I ask.

There's a US postman standing there looking like he's afraid to get shot.

"Uh, uh, I got… uh… delivery. Certified mail for Peter Parker from Richard Pool."

"Oh. Yeah. OK," I step out and sign for the package.

I wait until I can see the postman make it safely out of the alleyway and back to his vehicle parked and still running on the street before returning indoors and locking the door again.

The box holds nothing but a tiny transparent, plastic bag with choking hazard warnings written on it. Inside there's two small, dime-sized, flesh-colored circles. On one side, it feels sort of soft and felt-like. On the other, it's metallic. In tiny, miniscule letters, it merely says

PLACE THIS SIDE

FACE DOWN ON WRIST.

The other one says;

PLACE THIS SIDE

BEHIND EAR.

Okay, so whatever it is that Captain and Deadpool sent to me, it's obviously very small technology. And I only have one workable wrist right now.

I take the circle and place the metal side on my cast-less wrist.

Not entirely sure what I was expecting, but I didn't expect a sudden pinch in my wrist, like a bunch of nerves getting slapped. Somehow it runs up my arm in a jittery, electric way, causing me to stumble backwards and hit the wall and burst into a very loud, 'I just got unexpectedly tickled' sort-of laugh.

Followed by a... hiccup.

"What THE, what the HELL!" I exclaim. "What the fuhhhh…. Hell?" I grab the other piece. This better be worth it.

I press it to my skin just behind my ear, and this time, it knocks me flat out on my back, a shiver racing from my scalp to my heels as if I just ran into a live-wire fence.

I'm cackling like a hyena, struggling onto my good elbow to try and sit back up.

"Oh, there he is," says a voice in my ear. "Nice of you to join us."

"Deadpool!" I gasp. "Er… Mr. Wilson. What the hell is this thing?"

"Did you enjoy that?" his voice smirks. "When Banner invented these he gave us two choices. It could make you fart or it could make you giggle. We chose giggles."

"That is not entirely true," says Captain America's voice.

"Oh, you're in my head too," I moan. "Great. I mean. Yeah. Great. Captain. Hi."

"It's just a wire, in a figurative sense," Captain America replies. "Photostatic radio. It does mess with the nerves a bit the first time you put them on."

"Photostatic. Like the nanotech masks?"

"You certainly did do your homework," Captain says. "Same tech. Different purpose. Communication and recording devices that blends in perfectly with the skin."

"I can't…" I look at my cast. "I can't wear these. They'll find it."

"They've already searched you, right?" Wade Wilson taunts.

"Yeah - but what if they do that every time?"

"They won't find these, you'll be safe," Captain America promises.

"They busted up my arm really good," I say roughly. "I don't know exactly what your definition of safe is…"

"They did? Are you alright?" Captain asks. "If you need medical attention, you can call…"

"What, and blow my cover?" I exclaim. "They're rough enough as it is when they _like_ me. I'd hate to see what they're like when they DON'T! I think by the time I find that out, I'm dead!"

"Are you ALRIGHT, Peter?" Captain repeats.

"Busted arm. That's it. I'm fine. I went to the hospital and it's fine. It's fine."

I don't know why I'm giving a pair of Avengers a complete attitude. Maybe because I wasn't prepared enough for this.

My training in SHIELD was just like… taking an advanced English course for the literary inclined. They give you something you already have in high school and make it harder.

So instead of PE, there was self defense courses. Instead of biology, they taught us about Gamma radiation, nano tech, Ultron, alien invasions.

Instead of shooting baskets, they taught us how to shoot guns.

I hated that part. I'm not a gun guy. Web-shooters are better.

"Do you even want to know why we're in your head?" Wilson asks. "You've got three guesses. None of them are paranoid schizophrenia. Or ALL of them are."

"You want me to wear this thing because they might say something important?"

"Bingo was his name-O."

"Are you guys going to, uh, be talking to me through my nervous system ALL the time?"

"Only when we turn it on here," Captain says.

"IT'S LIT UP IN HERE," barks Wilson.

"I can't - I can't concentrate if he's going to do that," I say, my nerves frayed to nothing. "If he's going to shout things in a radio stuck to my face while I'm with these guys - I can't do it. Either this radio thing will not happen or he needs to - to - get out."

I can't believe I'm saying this to the first Avenger ever and an Avenger who can't die.

I'm totally screwed!

"I'll hold it together when you're actually in danger, dipshit," Wilson chides. "Don't you think I realize that we all can't be as stunningly attractive and as invincible as me?"

"Fine, fine, fine," I snap. "I'll wear it."

"We'll turn it back on when we pick up your signal with the Vulture's crew."

"What makes you think I'll even end up with the crew?"

"Because," Wilson says with utter delight, "Jackson Brice is on his way to pick you up at your garage right now. We're not always going to use Shield helicarrier satellite imaging to watch your six, but today, someone owed us a favor."

"Don't worry - they don't know who you are or why we're watching this space," says Captain. "You're still completely unknown."

I feel my stomach drop to my shoes, thinking of my dream. "Oh. Okay."

"We'll be listening to everything," Captain says calmly. "If he tries to sell you a job with them, take it. Him selling anything might mean he'll say something we can use."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Well, we aren't lucky enough for him to tell us who is the Hydra agents are hiding in Shield," Wilson sighs. "But one could hope and pray and bless the rains down in Africa."

"We'll be the ones that pick apart the transcripts later," Captain says. "You just get him talking."

A car horn beeps outside.

"That's probably him," I say uneasily, tugging on a pair of pants quickly, my arm screeching in protest. I manage to get one hoodie sleeve on, the other dangling uselessly over one shoulder.

"You do good, sugarbear," Wilson says again. I don't know how I feel about this nickname. "We're listening to everything so please don't do anything you wouldn't do with us watching. Okay?"

I shudder. Ew? Like what is he even referring to?

I refuse to ask. He'll just say something horrible.

"Good luck," says Captain America with a tone that sounds like he doesn't believe it.

When I'm out in the alleyway, I see Jackson Brice waiting in a cloud of cigarette smoke, elbow leaning out of his pickup truck. He's wearing a dark beanie and, if it's possible, his beard looks even rattier than last night.

I stop at the drivers side door and stare at him, brows furrowed.

"Get in," he says shortly. Puff, puff.

I clench my teeth together. I'm certain it gives me a juvenile, frog-like expression, but I don't care. "Why should I?" I ask. "You… you messed my arm up good last night."

Brice merely blows a plume of smoke on the inside of his windshield. "Look," he says, flicking the cigarette out the window. "I didn't like that anymore than you did."

"Like hell you didn't."

"I'm fucking telling you I didn't fucking like it. Didn't I fucking say that I liked you? Huh? Told ya that'ch you're welcome at Punzi's anytime?"

"Oh, so, I have your permission to NOT drink there? Thanks."

"Didn't you hear me tell Toomes to leave you alone? Didn't I say that you were a pussy and a waste of time? Why'd you think I said that, huh? Maybe so he wouldn't kill you? I don't just fucking do that for nobody."

I pause. I don't know if he's being genuine at all. But I did recall it now. I thought he was being insulting. Maybe he was trying to be kind in his own sick way.

"You certainly have a twisted way of making friends," I reply.

"Well, we ain't friends. We're just going to work together. Or we might not. Hell, I don't want to work with you, either. In fact I voted against you."

"Maybe I don't care."

"I think if you want a gun like you said you did, you ought to care. Consider it part of the benefits package. We don't have fucking dental."

"So what is this?" I ask. "You picking me up and going… where? Driving me off a cliff?"

"It's for your fucking job interview. You want a gun? You want a job? Both? Get in my fucking truck."

"Fine," I snap, walking around the cab and getting into the passenger seat.

Brice looks over, and rolls his eyes. "Stick your arm out."

I look down at my left arm in the cast, then back at him, eyes wide. "After what happened last time? No thanks."

"I'm trying to help," Brice growls with frustration. He reaches over and grabs my loose hoodie sleeve and holds it out for me. "Putchyer damn arm in it."

Slowly and afraid he's going to do something horrible - again - I stick my hand in the sleeve. Brice hikes up the excess sleeve over the cast so that it bunches around the elbow.

"Better?" he asks gruffly.

"Thanks," I say shortly.

The engine is already running, but he doesn't do anything else except look at the dashboard for a second.

I glance at the dash, and then back at him.

"Are we… uh… are we going any time soon?" I ask.

"I got two rules for my car," he snaps, disregarding the question entirely. "My music and no talking. Okay?" He gets out of park and hits the accelerator.

"Fine by me."

Brice turns the volume dial up. A very specific style of violent, misogynist 90s hip hop starts playing.

Other than the horrible lyrics, we ride in silence. I hope Deadpool and Captain America enjoy listening to O.C.

Who am I kidding? Deadpool probably loves it. He's probably gushing about it. Captain America is probably wondering what this music has to do with Orange County.

We arrive at a brick, eight-story apartment building. Brice parks at a yellow curb.

He doesn't say anything when we get into an elevator. He hits the button to the top floor.

When the ascension begins, I hear a voice in my ear.

"Why the fuck is it so quiet?" Wade Wilson asks. "Is this thing ON?"

I spontaneously blow air through my lips in the same beat we were listening to in the car. Sort of like beatboxing, except I don't know how to do it correctly.

"Sounds like someone had too many chimichangas," Wade Wilson continues. "I thought we got the one that zapped you into giggles?"

"Can you not?" Brice demands.

"The song is stuck in my head," I reply cheerfully.

He looks over at me. "Why you so smiley all of a sudden?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"You bipolar or some shit?"

I give him an even glance. "Maybe? I never thought about it."

I don't think alternating between scared out of my mind and using humor as a crutch counts as being bipolar.

"What you never got, like, tested or somethin?"

"No?"

"Huh," he acts like he has shivers. "You kinda freak me out."

"That makes two of us, then."

"Or FOUR OF US," Wade chimes in.

I nearly slap at the side of my head, as if that would do any good, but catch myself at the last minute, itching my scalp as ordinarily as possible.

The doors slide open on a hall where Brice leads me to the only door at the end. My heart is beating so fast I think I might throw up when he opens it.

"Deep breaths, son," says Captain America's voice.

I don't know how they're getting my _vitals_ too, but that seems a little excessive. Have them in my head at all feels off. I got in and made my introductions, connections, whatever the heck they call criminal networking all by myself after three weeks of prison, and NOW they want to listen in?

Where were they when someone approached me in prison and offered me money to kill someone in the yard during the daily walk? Where were they when Brice bashed my arm in? Where were they when I would have slept on the cement in the garage if it hadn't been for Aunt May's quick thinking?

They wanted this to be organic, which means I am basically doing everything alone. Truly alone. Having them wire in is like, a last ditch effort for them to feel like spies.

I'm the real spy.

If this is doomed to fail, it's not my fault, right?

The apartment is nice, and messy. The sort of messy you get when you have a lot of money to spend on things you don't need. There's an extensive book and vinyl collection, lots of them off the shelves and lying in little piles on the coffee table, desk, poker table, end stands. Two nice white, leather couches face each other. There's a table by a sliding glass door to the balcony with a nice view of the harbor. The kitchen is painted dark green and stuffed chock full of plants. Plants climbing the fruit basket, in pots on the windowsill.

The Vulture is sitting at a desk shoved to one side of the room, separating the living room from the dining room. Brice goes over to the couch and drops into it with an annoyed huff, crossing his legs over the coffee table. He digs for a remote and turns on the tv to a sports channel, leaving it on mute.

"Come have a seat, Parker," Adrian Toomes says distractedly. He's looking over a long, printed spreadsheet across his desk. He's wearing glasses to read it. It gives him such a normal, dad-figure look.

He glances over the tops of those glasses at me. "Arm okay?"

"It's fine."

"Sorry that had to happen. Can't be too careful."

I frown but I don't answer. I don't have to pretend I enjoyed getting frisked and smashed!

"I admire artists," he says, beginning to fold up the spreadsheet. "John Lennon, Beethoven… who's the guy with the drippy clocks? Degas?"

"Salvador Dali," I respond without having to think. I really should have been on the decathlon team…

"Right. Dali." Toomes shrugs. His voice sounds like a nightmare about drippy freaking clocks. Raspy but not deep. Old but not frail. "My point is - artists could make something out of nothing." He gestures at me. "I look at you and I see nothing much at all, but I think you could really be something. Or at least you manage to be half of nothing, and I use you for something. You took out two of the beefiest mother fuckers in the Italian mafia in less than a minute, doing nothing fancy at all except for a little footwork."

I hear a strange little _ahem_ from Captain America. He sounds shocked. I'm not entirely sure why. Didn't he expect me to get into a fight once in awhile? It's part of my cover.

"I have really good reflexes?" I say, "Always have. The Shield training gave me an extra edge."

"And you pick fights."

"I guess I do."

"Wouldn't it be helpful having a little tutelage about who to pick a fight with and who NOT to pick a fight with?"

"Who do YOU want me to fight with?" I ask.

"We'll get to that," Toomes finishes folding the spreadsheet and lifts a clear ziploc bag off the desk that was hidden underneath.

Inside the bag is a severed human hand.

Blood runs against the seam of the bag to the bottom. One of the fingers has a ring on it. A silver ring with a blue gemstone.

I make a little cough sound in my throat.

The biggest Italian guy from Jo's diner and pub. He wore the same ring.

That's his hand.

Vulture said he'd 'take care of them' as an apology, didn't he?

I thought he meant pay them off.

Pay them off. _With money._ Not… not… not murder them last night after he left me crying on the floor of Punzi's?

"Heart rate," I hear Captain America say, so far away, it's nearly off mic.

"So," I say, trying to sound casual. "That's the Italian guy, right?"

Toomes is giving me a completely neutral state that I cannot interpret. "Yes it is."

"I guess I should say thanks then," I say. "You followed through."

"I'm guessing you should," Toomes holds the bag out at arms length. "Jackson!"

Brice looks over the back of the couch. "What?" he whines.

"Get rid of this today."

"Yeah, sure thing, boss," Brice replies sort of sarcastically.

There's an awkward pause.

"NOW," Toomes adds in a voice that could not be doubted. Not for a second.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay," Brice hoists himself off the couch, leaving the TV running. He comes over and picks at the bag with the very tips of his fingers. "Off to the trash compactor we go," he says, grossed out. He looks down at me. "You find your own way back, eh?"

"I don't need a ride, I'll walk. Thanks."

"Suit yourself." Brice finds a brown paper grocery sack tucked between the wall and the fridge, puts the human hand inside, winds up the top of the bag, and leaves the apartment.

I hear him whistling cheerfully in the hallway before the elevator pings.

"So I don't have to worry about getting chased by the Italian mafia?" I ask.

"Not anymore, you don't."

"Thanks again."

Toomes smiles at me. "You're welcome. Felt bad for last night, I did. See I'm not like the other jackasses out there running the streets. I'm a fair and considerate employer. What do you think? Is that something you could work with?"

"I'm not going to lie. I need the work," I nod heavily. "Getting out of prison meant my opportunities went down to zero."

"I want to use you," Toomes nods. "I think we could give you a trial run as, say, the counterpart to Shultz's muscle. He can stop a guy with a look because he's so fucking huge but the guy's cardio sucks ass. He couldn't chase down a client if they took off without paying. You could."

"I know I could."

"I like your confidence." He taps his desk in an agitated way. "Are you enhanced?"

"If I was, that makes my getting caught even more embarrassing," I sigh. "Is there a test I can take to find out? I'm fast and stealthy, but it didn't do me much good at my first job interview."

"Naw, there's no test. I just don't want to have to fuck with the Accords."

"Oh, sure, sure. No, I don't have to sign the Accords."

"I'd rather not know," Toomes replies. "Plausible deniability. If you're good at what you do then that is good enough for me."

I nod. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Well… I mean… I was just looking for a gun, and you're offering me a job. I guess I was wondering why I was the lucky one?"

"Because when I see something useful, I want it," he says stiffly. "Stepping in for Jo was a ballsy move and I'd rather have you with me than against me. Capiche?"

"Yes, sir."

"So I think we can work something out to both of our advantages. You'll get cash after jobs. You probably won't know when or what they are until one of my guys comes and gets you. When we do that, I expect you to be ready to give it a hundred-and-ten and I'll find out soon enough if I want to make you a permanent team member."

"That… that sounds good, Mr. Toomes."

"Now - go home. I'll send Jackson for you again. Okay?"

"Okay." I stand up. "You're… uh… not gonna need me to fill out a background check, are you?" I give him a tentative grin. I hear Deadpool snort with laughter.

Toomes looks as if he is honestly considering it for a moment, and then changes his mind. "Your priors are enough of a background check for me. For now."

"Looking forward to working with you," I say with uncertainty. "Thank you for this opportunity."

"Get outta here, smart ass," Toomes chuckles. It's not a real laugh, he has a wild light in his eyes, like he wants to kill someone, but has to put on a nice face for me. "We'll be in touch."

I turn and walk, with agonizing normality, back out of the apartment door.

No less than one minute later, I hear Deadpool start peppering me with questions. I don't hear any of them. My ears are ringing and my brain is backfiring and my heart is racing. I hear every other word. Something about murder and bodies and Italy and asking me to stop pretending I'm in that John Krasinski movie with the aliens.

I find a Starbucks two miles away. By this time, the questions have died down.

"Whenever you're ready, son," says Captain America calmly.

"Think he's dead already?" asks Wade Wilson.

I go into the Starbucks and get in line. I'm going through the motions now, moving like a robot. I don't even want coffee. I just want to look normal. In case I'm being followed. How would I know? I don't know everyone who works for Vulture. He has a big network.

I order an iced black coffee.

Then I walk stiffly to the men's room and go inside. I dig my thumbnail painfully under the invisible, small pucker of flesh on my inner wrist of my right arm. After a painful moment, the tiny circle peels up, unclinging itself and sending a sudden wave of relief through me. I drop it into the toilet bowl.

Then I dig at the one behind my ear, peel it up, and drop it beside the other, and kick the trip lever. The toilet flushes unreasonably loudly and I watch a few thousand dollars worth of Stark technology swirl in a circle before disappearing forever.

 _Oh shit._

 _I just…_

 _Oh SHIT._

 _I just flushed a few thousand dollars worth of Stark technology._

 _Frick frick frick frick…_

I pick up my coffee and leave the Starbucks. I don't watch for a tail, I don't care to act paranoid. I walk with no particular hurry, sipping my coffee until it's down to a few spoonfuls.

I keep the stacks and towers of the Newtown water treatment center in my eyeline. By this time, I'm back in Greenpoint, tossing the cup in a nearby garbage, and homeward bound for Uncle Ben's garage.

When I get back, I retrieve the cell phone from where I left it on the counter. Taking a deep breath, I dial Richard Poole.

The call is answered.

"I'm not doing this with a wire," I say firmly. "Little fleshy-audio pennies, radios, surveillance, nothing. I am not going to do it - ever, ever, EVER, do you hear me? I'm not doing it," I repeat. I sit heavily on the edge of my makeshift bed. "I won't do it with anything on me that points back to you. It doesn't matter how _small_ it is. How good Mr. Stark's technology looks. I'm not going to do it."

"Whoa, whoa, whoaaaa," Wade Wilson says. "We get it. Okay. You got spooked."

"SPOOKED?" I say. "You didn't see it! He had a hand. Okay? A human hand! Just sitting on his desk like, like, like uh, a paper weight!"

"The Russos."

"Huh?"

"The Italian guys."

"Listen," I say shakily. "There was, there was this guy, getting held up, okay? In his own diner. While I was there. I put a stop to it. I wanted to help."

"And they're dead," says Captain America.

"But I didn't kill them," I say urgently. "Look, we fought, they ran off. They RAN off. Toomes was grateful that I helped the diner-owner, he's a friend or a client or something, I don't know. He said that the Italian guys were coming back to kill me. Said he'd take care of it. I thought he was going to pay them off! I didn't know he was going to kill them and cut off a hand to just show it off!"

"Take a deep breath, Peter," Captain America says. "We didn't think that you killed them. Deep breaths. We found their bodies this morning. A few of our guys tracked down their killer. SHIELD made an arrest already. When we heard you mention them over the wire we realized you had been involved somehow - but we didn't think you _killed_ them. We weren't worried about that."

"We were worried about compromising your cover," Wade Wilson adds, being uncharacteristically quiet. "If there were any signs on the bodies that led back to you, we were more worried about Shield's entanglements reflecting badly on you. That's all, buttercup."

"Wearing your tech is going to compromise my cover!" I say again. "I'm not going to do it! You don't know what this is like. You don't _get it."_

Silence.

"Say the word," Captain America says. "If you can't do this. It's early yet, it would be far easier to pull you out now than it would be later. When you're more involved. But now? If we must. It all goes away."

Another silence. My chest freaking hurts. Am I having a heart attack? I've thought that before, too. Maybe I really do have issues.

"I'm not quitting," I say. "I'm not quitting. You just, you just can't expect things to go a certain way. I'll call when I can, but I'm not wearing the thingies."

"What'd you do with em, anyway?" Wilson asks. "As interesting as it was to listen to the barista at Starbucks try and spell your name with like three As and a Y, we didn't get anything after that."

"I flushed them down the toilet," I say stiffly. "I don't want them here at the garage. I don't want to leave them on the street. They are _gone._ I needed to get rid of them carefully, make it look like part of something else. Like going into a Starbucks like other teenagers do."

"Were you being followed?"

"If I checked, I'd look guilty. So I didn't."

"Smart," Captain America says. "Peter, you _do_ have a knack for this. You've been leading a double life as Spider-Man and Parker for so long. You've exchanged it for the harder work and I have absolute faith in you."

"... okay," I say quietly, calming my breaths. I can do this. I can.

"Listen," he continues, "I'm going to put you on the phone with Tony Stark. Just for a moment."

"REALLY?" I squeak. "T-T-Tony Stark? THE Tony Stark? Like Iron-Man? Like… ooooooh boy. Wait, why? What for? Oh geeze. I destroyed his tech. I probably owe him millions. I don't have millions. I just flushed his inventions down the toilet. Ohhhh shiiit. I didn't think - he probably wants them back! Oh shit."

"Slow the fuck down, Spaz," Wilson says. "He's going to brief you on something to look for. If you're not wearing the candy dots, you need to use your eyes and ears like everybody else. And HE is going to tell you what you need to look for. Okay?"

"Oh… OH. Okay. I see. Sorry. Um. Sorry, it's just, he's been a hero of mine for so long… and I'm really - oh boy. I'm acting like a crazy fan. I'm sorry. How do I act? What do I say?"

"You may ask him questions," Captain America says. There's a pause. "Listen," he says thinly. "Wade, I appreciate you wanting to be in on this call, but I got it from here. You're breathing down my neck. Why don't you go get Tony? Please."

There's a strange sound. It sounded like a… smooch on air.

"Okay, that's enough," Captain America barks. "Just leave my office. Please."

"Your face tastes like justice and rosebuds," says Wilson's voice.

"Uh...?" I don't know what to ask, but I have a million questions.

"I kissed his cheeeeeeeek," I hear Wilson singing as his voice recedes away.

I literally cannot imagine what it must be like in his head. He's ever the bravest or the most idiotic person on this planet.

The Captain clears his throat. "You are not to tell Tony Stark who you are. You don't say your name, where you are staying, nothing. Just ask relevant questions. He knows not to ask you anything, either."

"Yes, yes sir." I feel my nerves bundle up again, but this time with excitement.

Iron-Man.

I'm going to talk to Iron-Man.

...

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 **Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you can, thank you! :)**


	7. Groundbuilding

**Warnings for this chapter: Excessive violence/language**

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 **CHAPTER SEVEN - Groundbuilding**

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 **Conversations - _Tony Stark_**

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Wade Wilson shuts the door to Steve's office behind me.

"Rogers," I say with a nod. "Our dead friend suggested you had one of your undercover guys on the phone for me."

He nods. He's already holding a phone to his ear. "I need your microprocessor briefing for my guy."

I beckon for the phone, and he places it in my hand. "Tony Stark speaking."

"H-hey! Mr. Stark!" squeaks a voice. "It's uh - uh - it's cool, nice, NICE, to meet you. I mean not - meet you. Just talk to you I guess. Wow. Uh. This is amazing."

His voice sounds familiar, but I can't place it. I pull the phone away from my ear. "I'm sorry, how old is this kid?"

Steve frowns. "Old enough. Eighteen."

"Indoctrinate them young, that's cool," I say. I have no problem with it, I just enjoy bothering Rogers. I've pulled kids younger from Shield and science programs across the U.S. to come intern for me before, but I haven't had one fangirl like this for awhile.

"Yello," I say back into the phone. "Nice to meet you as well. Listen. I know you're probably all deep in the trenches and what not, so I'll keep this brief. Microprocessors. They are one-to-two millimeters in circumference. Tiniest computer chips in the world. Previously invented and untested by Stark industries, unfortunately sold in a hostile company takeover in 2008.

"Recently stolen from said company that purchased them - a hundred of them - and now, apparently, in working condition. They program computers for missile launches to be more precise, more deadly, than ever before. While there are other missile programs that are comparable, they're on discs. Thumb drives. Shit easily found and can be installed by an eighth grader. These microprocessors have a great value in their transportation quality. You can contain them in a pill capsule. They have to be installed directly onto a motherboard, which requires actual experts that..."

I hear the furious scribbling of a pencil on paper in the background.

"Are you taking notes?" I ask incredulously.

"Oh, no, no," says the voice quickly. "Oh, geeze, no, that'd be - no. I'm not writing any of this down. Someone could find it. I listen better when I'm keeping my hands busy. I'm just drawing lines. Is… is that okay? Mr. Stark?"

"That's… fine," I reply slowly.

This kid is a fucking gem and I really hope he lives long enough to come work for me someday.

"Hydra agents were last seen with the transportation device but not found with the processors themselves. We think they were a front. We think they are finding their way into the Vulture's crew. I think Adrian Toomes will try to sell them for a million apiece to various buyers across the globe."

"So he's selling to enemies," the boy replies. "Um… I mean… I get why he wants to make money, but doesn't that seem like a stupid thing to do? Like… if he sells them to a hostile nation or something and they do like a nuclear attack later. Then we're all the ones that die, including him. Why wouldn't he think of that?"

"One would wish he would and have them destroyed. But the man sells weapons. That's how his brain is wired. I don't think he contemplates having them turned on him someday. Like you," I add, admirably. "You're a weapon in his midst. You're the stronger, smarter one. Don't forget that."

He sounds surprised by the encouragement. "Oh. Thanks. Yeah. I guess I am."

Steve nods, approvingly. "Thanks," he mouths.

"You'll do good, kid," I say. "Now listen. I'm briefing you because Cap wants you to keep an ear out for them. If there's going to be a sale… an exchange… transportation - anything. If you find out anything, you tell Captain Rogers right away."

"Yes sir, will do, sir."

"Good." I turn back to Steve. "That everything you need from me, Cap?"

"Thanks, Tony."

I hang on to the phone for a second. "You seem like a smart one. Are you?"

"I maintained a 4.0 for science and math in high school?"

I blink. He's so adorably humble it sounds like confidence. "When you're through with this nonsense, you come on back to the tower and try interning with me and Dr. Banner," I say. "Okay? Won't you like a break from all the street work?"

"Oh - wow - yeah! Mr. Stark, that'd be, wow, so - I'm. Yes. Yes. I would. I would like to."

Rogers chuckles. "All right, stop trying to steal my team."

"Clearly he belongs on mine," I reply. "Hang in there, kiddo! We're rooting for you. And don't worry, no one will know we had this conversation except for your handlers."

"Thanks Mr. Stark! I really - um, yeah, thanks."

I hand the phone back to Steve. "Nice one," I mouth, and then I leave the office, shutting the door carefully behind me.

Barnes and Sam Wilson are walking down the hall the opposite direction, trailed by Brock Rumlow. Jesus, I hate that guy. I wish Shield would stop trying to act like they're our oversight for the U.N. They're not.

We tolerate their presence because they have good resources. And probably because they are corrupt as fuck.

Now these three think they are Odin-blessed because they brought us a Dark Elf gun this morning and arrested the man they think who bought it, and killed, low-level mafia crime brothers. Well, make that Barnes and Rumlow.

Sam Wilson is okay. Maybe a little on-the-nose for loyalty to Captain America and no one else, as if the Avengers are not a team but merely disciples. But I can't fault him that. Steve Rogers inspires.

I'm sure that's how Steve got a science-geek to go undercover with the most dangerous criminal on the eastern seaboard. There has to be more to the story. He wouldn't just send any nerd in there.

There must be something special about this kid...

Suddenly I stop in the middle of the hallway.

I remember that voice.

I remember hearing it when we were researching unsigned vigilantes in New York.

Our research yielded some interesting results. There's a few blind ninjas and bullet-proof bouncers, but none of them donned neon pajamas and swung from skyscraper to skyscraper like this one, catching bad guys in spider-webs and delivering them on precinct doorsteps with friendly notes. There was a security video of the self-titled "Spider-Man" stopping a bank robbery in progress and taunting the criminals with that same squeaky tone.

I should have guessed then, the red-and-blue masked hero dropped off the radar after the "disturbance" during the job interviews for new interns. Last I heard, a kid lost his shit in our downstairs lobby and got carted away to prison. No one told me who it was, and I didn't care. Bigger fish to fry. I was too distracted. I didn't put the two together till now.

I break into a smile. Spider-Man is our guy inside of Vulture's crew.

I have to hand it to Rogers - that's ballsy. But smart. The kid is stronger than all of them put together - faster, smarter, and probably more flexible.

I have some ideas for when he's done. Like exchanging the pajamas for a real suit. My brain starts working in overdrive and I start walking back to the lab. I need to start some preliminary sketches immediately. One of these days he's going to be Team Stark and he'll feel prepared for anything.

I wonder about this though. How easy it was for me to figure it out. What if someone else figures it out too?

I try to think back on the day in the labs when we were researching the vigilantes… It was just the original crew that day, minus the prince of Asgard. Steve, myself, Bruce, Natasha, and Clint. People I trust with my life and every other life I know.

If any of them have put two-and-two together, he's still perfectly safe.

"We're not going to mess up this job," I hear in the distance.

I pause in the hall and look around the corner, where Barnes, Rumlow, and Sam are still walking back towards the elevators. I don't know why I'm eavesdropping.

"Thanks to handing the gun over this morning," Barnes is saying, "Steve wants us to follow up on this. Start tracking some of the other purchases and see if it can lead us back to interested parties. If we can't find them, maybe we can find the people who will be calling the Vulture to buy them."

"Great," Rumlow says gruffly. "So we're running errands."

"Welcome to the Hardy Boys," chuckles Barnes. The reference is lost on them. It's not that they don't understand it, they just don't find it funny. Ha ha.

"If we knew who the undercover guys were, it'd be a little easier to get information on that?" Rumlow asks with frustration. "I don't get why everything is so compartmentalized with you guys on high priority missions. Shield organizes by levels. A certain level grants you access to all the information you need to be successful."

"Well, lemme tell you my theory," Sam Wilson replies. "It's because we - aren't - SHIELD, AGENT Rumlow."

Rumlow glares at him. "Well aware, thank you."

"It's the right thing to do," Barnes replies. "Steve's got everyone's best interests at heart - and - frankly - I do not think he trusts anyone. Even me, to a degree. Not as a personal insult but to protect the team."

"Protect us from what, exactly?" Sam asks. "Last I checked, the Avengers weren't in danger from anything except weird nicknames and eclectic costume changes."

"Like Tony Stark said in the briefing," Barnes replies uneasily. "Who knows who Hydra has their clutches in? Could be anyone. We have to be on guard for that. No matter what."

His cell phone rings. He steps away to answer, and I pull back behind the wall.

"Yes," he answers tersely. "No, I won't order that. That's got to come from the Captain directly. Make those requests to him. I'm not your boss. We're on the same team. Okay?"

I have no idea who he is talking to, but what kind of hot shot would ask him permission for something in the field before talking to Steve Rogers? A middle-tier trainee, most likely, whose getting called in for the same missions, except for the low-key tasks. Like driving a car.

Even - even if, Barnes dissuades them in their misplacement, and points them back to the actual line of command, that's dangerous. Maybe he inspires leadership and loyalty of his own, too.

...

* * *

 **Murder Capital - _Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

The next week when I get told to get into a car, it's a SUV and Schultz is driving. Toomes sits in the passenger seat, and Jackson Brice sits with me in the back. Davis is nowhere to be seen.

It's about eleven-thirty in the morning and I get the feeling we're on our way to certain violence.

My skin crawls with it, anticipates it.

They chatter sort of incessantly. Some of it business related, but nothing I can use. They only discuss the actual material. Which carbon they prefer. Something about using the last of their inventory from Greenwich. Asking if the soil in New Mexico still contains traces of Asgardian rubble and how can it be isolated.

They don't say anything about the microprocessors.

"You ready for some fun, kid?" Toomes asks when Schultz pulls to a stop in front of an old, twelve-story apartment in Brownsville, Brooklyn.

Otherwise known as the murder capital of New York.

"Born ready." I answer. "What do you want me to do?"

"Easy," Toomes says. "Brice is going to do a little client follow up survey. You need to watch his back while he does it. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Got it."

We pull under one of the parking structures, and Brice and I get out and slam the doors. We follow the sidewalk up into the entry of the apartment building. We should need to be buzzed in, but we don't. With a few hard yanks, Brice opens the door right up. It's stuck but not locked.

We go through the main lobby and to the apartments on the first floor, into a back hallway. This place looks like an abandoned set for a zombie movie.

Brice pounds with his fist on the door of 138.

"Open up Jimmy," he calls out. "It's Jackson Brice."

There's a shuffle on the other side and Jimmy opens the door, a middle-aged, grizzled man who looks about fifteen years older than he should be due to meth use and rotten teeth. His stained army jacket, jeans, and white thinning hair stink with body odor and cigarettes.

"The fuck you want?" he asks.

"Need to have a word with your brother."

"Caleb ain't in."

"Move," Jackson snaps.

Jimmy obeys, steps aside and lets the door hang open. He walks over to a chair in a trash-filled living area. It looks like he hoards newspapers and drug paraphernalia.

Caleb is standing near the dinette table by the half-kitchen. "Listen," he says quickly, eyes widening as Brice approaches him in three short strides. "I can get you the…"

Brice jacks his arm back and punches him hard in the mouth.

I jolt with surprise, but no one notices my reaction. Jimmy watches Brice and his brother.

Caleb flies back into the dining chair, holding out his empty hands pleadingly. "I said I'd get you the fucking money!" he exclaims.

"You got a fucking discount on the Chitauri baton," Brice shouts angrily into his face. "On account that you destroy Paxson with it. And what'd you fucking do? Paxson's gone, off to Florida as far as I can tell. So you owe us fourteen-thousand dollars in difference."

"I don't - I don't have fourteen thousand dollars yet! The other guys haven't paid me MY share yet for protecting them with the damn thing on their deliveries!"

Brice hits him again. "What, can't you pressure them to make a timely payment plan?"

Caleb gasps. "I get paid next week! Next week! I'm getting a thousand each! I can get you your money with interest if you just fucking give me time to do it!"

"We practically gave you a two-hundred-thousand dollar Chitauri baton for free to help out with the enforcement and you can't even take out one rival in your little street gangs?" Brice hits him a third time. "Are you going to pay us our fucking money back?"

"I'm gonna pay you the fucking money back!" Caleb hollers.

I see Jimmy - eyes locked onto Brice's back - reach into his front coat pocket.

In barely half a second, I've sprung across the room, feet barely touching the ground, jerking Jimmy's hand out of his pocket and slamming the wrist back against the wall with both hands. I overestimate my distance, and my cast slams into his mouth, breaking teeth.

A box of Marlboros flies out of his hand, and he screams into the plaster with pain.

"Shit!" he shouts, falling sideways out of his chair and onto the floor. He spits out a mouthful of blood. Brice turns back and looks at me, dumbfounded. "I was going for my cigarettes!" he protests with a horrible gurgle. "Just - cigarettes!"

"The fuck you doing?" Brice asks me.

"I thought he was going to pull a gun on you!"

"You don't HIT Jimmy!" Brice exclaims in disbelief. He turns back to Caleb and hits him again. "Pay up, fucker, next week. With interest. Or we take the baton back over your dead body and sell it to China with your blood still on it. Got it?"

"GOT IT," Caleb moans.

"Come on, Parker," Brice gestures to me and makes me follow up out of the apartment. We leave the door standing open behind us.

I can hear the distressed voices of Caleb and Jimmy cursing about their injuries trailing after us down the hall.

We emerge out of the apartment building. The sun has broken through the gray, smoggy clouds. It feels warm against the ice-cold chill shattering me from my neck to my lower back. Schultz kept the car running, and we get inside.

"How was your first day of school, sweetheart?" Toomes asks sarcastically.

"He punched Jimmy's teeth out!" Brice exclaims, giving me a look of annoyance. "You can't do the shit we do if you turn into a hothead just because the guy smells bad!"

"I didn't do it just because!" I shout back defensively. "I'm your guard dog, right? That's what you wanted? I don't know Jimmy. He reached into his pocket, it looked like he had a gun. I thought he was going to shoot you in the back, okay?"

Toomes grins. "You know who Jimmy is now, don't you?"

"A customer?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yeah, a customer we were able to upsale. And customers pay us when they buy from us. So don't you just kill 'em for no reason."

"I didn't kill him," I respond angrily. "I just bumped into his teeth with my cast."

Schultz breaks into laughter. "I would have liked to have seen that."

"Look, I like a guy who busts someone's teeth once in awhile," Toomes says.

Brice rolls his eyes.

"What do you think?" Toomes asks him. "Graduate to first grade?"

"Just barely," Brice sighs.

"All right," Toomes hands me an old cellphone from the front seat. "This is your work phone. We call you when we have a job. You never call us directly, you reach my tech-guy. We replace them regularly to keep them untraceable. It will ring to Mason."

"Who is Mason?"

"The secretary for all you know," Toomes says sternly. "Couldn't keep his paws off my phone anyway so we just made him my receptionist while he works in an undisclosed location. He answers. He gets us the info. Mason is the ONLY person that you call. Ever. He can talk with us. You don't talk with us. We talk to you. Okay?"

"Okay," I say nervously, accepting the phone. I immediately open it, look at the blank screen, and shut it again, tucking it into my hoodie pocket.

"I didn't quite hear that," Toomes says again.

"I understand," I reply firmly.

Toomes's phone rings. He answers. "What?" he asks shortly. "Ah. Well hello there, MASON," he gives me a look, as if proving a point he's very excited about. "I see. Thanks for the message." He hangs up. "A friend of a friend just told Mason that we have some Shield activity nearby."

I try to keep my face neutral.

"Take the next right," Toomes says. "We're not heading into Manhattan today if they're getting itchy."

"So where are we going?" Schultz asks.

"Let's get lunch," Toomes responds. "Lobster Joint."

The Lobster Joint is literally around the corner from Uncle Ben's garage. Literally.

I'm sure Uncle Ben had lunch here multiple times. Maybe that's where he met the Vulture in the first place.

I say nothing.

When we get there, Schultz and Brice order their food to go, pay in cash, and go sit in the SUV. Toomes slaps my shoulder in an overly friendly way and gestures to a table. "Call it a business lunch," he says. "It's on me."

I can't shake the uneasiness I feel about his white, white teeth. Like they're going to extend just a little longer and grow points like those old school vampire movies.

Though Toomes is a little easier to spend time with than I expected. He keeps the conversation rolling, and I answer in stilted, short answers. It feels like a distant family member taking out a young cousin for lunch as a graduation gift even though he hadn't interacted with him in years.

"So you got a lot of good grades at Midtown," he says. "Shame you threw it all away."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"My daughter used to go there. Few years back."

"Huh. Interesting." I don't remember ever meeting a girl with the last name Toomes. Definitely not worth tracking down a yearbook over.

"Your history of violence," Toomes continues. "Started at that failed job interview?"

I shake my head. "Actually, no."

"Oh yeah? When did it start? School record was clean."

"I would get into fights on the street. Never seen, caught, never arrested for it."

"What? Did you rob your fellow students for milk money?"

I shake my head. "I would run into people in the city. Taking shortcuts, walking home, didn't matter. Ran into people spoiling for fights. I'd give them fights."

Fighting bad guys to save victims wearing red and blue sweatpants, but...

"Brice made a valuable point earlier," Toomes says. "Hotheads are good in a life or death situations but you can't pop everyone who gives you a funny look."

"I learned that well enough," I reply. "I'll be careful. I swear."

He looks down at my still-full plate. "Do you ever eat?" He reaches over and pushes the plate closer. "At least eat one breadstick, for crying out loud. I don't want my new hires to waste away before I get a chance to use them."

I pick up the breadstick and nibble on it. I don't have very much of an appetite. Too much stress, not enough sleep. I bought a jar of peanut butter for the garage to dig into if I am in desperate need of a snack with a little protein and sugar.

"You know," Toomes says, "If your Uncle Ben was alive, and saw you sitting here with me, wouldn't matter how nice of a working relationship we had. He would kill me and every single one of my guys to get you out of my presence."

I know this about my uncle - his protectiveness, his capability to be a warrior if he needed to be - but at the same time - it's weird to hear someone else say it. Especially someone like the Vulture.

"He would grab this butter knife right here," Toomes slabs some butter onto his lobster, "And he would saw my throat open with it."

I feel the blood drain from my face. I put the breadstick down.

"You know he never killed, hurt, or robbed anyone, right?" Toomes continues, misinterpreting my expression. I am disgusted by his violent words. He thinks I'm worried about Uncle Ben's record. "He just wanted to help people, never got greedy with money. You can't do shit with a person like that. Cannot be bribed except with threat of harm for the loved ones."

I gulp.

"Benny was a good guy," he says. "The absolute best. But that would not have stopped him from sacrificing his soul on your account. If he saw you here with me today, even if it sent him right to hell, he'd kill everyone here and haul you out by your shirt tails and send you packing right home to that Aunt of yours."

I shrug. "I don't want to be reminded that my choice of occupation would disappoint him."

"I'm not saying you'd disappoint him. I'm saying it's not too late to bow out if you wana do right by him."

I'm startled by this, and I can't hide it. "You mean quit on my first day?"

"I wouldn't fault you for it, honest," Toomes says. "If you left the restaurant today and I never saw you again, I wouldn't hunt you down. You aren't that valuable to me yet. Stick around, you might get there. But today is your last chance if you want to walk away."

I shake my head, wishing I had the smarts to accept. Wishing I was doing the brave thing to say yes to Toomes's proposal, and then immediately call Captain America and ask for him to get me out. I could do it now. It would be easy.

"I need a job," I try to shrug nonchalantly.

"Ever thought about going back to school?" He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "It's not too late to apply for college in the fall."

"I'm not going back to school now that I'm a felon," I sigh. "Like I said before - my opportunities went down to zip."

"Don't bash college just yet," Toomes leaves cash on the table and gestures for me to follow him out the door. "You're so fucking young."

We drive back to Queens after lunch and pick up Aaron Davis in a parking garage, then we drop off Toomes and Schultz at the same apartment Jackson Brice took me to last week for my job interview with the hand in the bag.

For awhile the three of us left just… drive around, seemingly with no purpose. Once in awhile we stop, and Jackson runs out into a building, coming out with either money or nothing. It's strange.

He doesn't ask me to be his guard dog again.

This continues well past sunset and I'm starting to get wired and exhausted both, running on adrenaline and worry, wishing I had eaten more at the lobster joint.

Eventually we stop outside of a warehouse with a large, empty plaza in front of it, save a single parked silver sedan in the front. The sun has finally just dropped below the horizon and the every building is dark gray in the twilight, shadows deepening and the sky turning lavender above us.

"Here, take this thing," Jackson hands me a small cylinder. It's metal, rigid, about the size of a pringles can. It has a mustard-yellow light on the side, and a tiny square of controls on the top. It sort of looks like a fat lightsaber handle. Definitely a mixture of human technology and something not of this world.

I take it in my hand. "Okay, what do you want me to do with it?"

"Run it over to that silver sedan and tuck it in the wheel well."

"Okay," I roll my eyes and hop out of the car, dash over to the sedan, and cram it up into the wheel well. I turn and jog back to the SUV.

I'm barely eighty feet away when my spider-sense screams at me to duck.

BOOM!

The ground rocks with a massive explosion behind me, heat searing the back of my head and jacket as I drop, throwing my arms behind my head, and breaking into a lopsided run with my upper body bent out of the shockwave that slams into me.

"Jesus CHRIST!" I shriek, crashing into the side of the SUV and struggling to open the door. I am barely halfway in before Jackson smashes the accelerator and whoops loudly with violent joy.

I grasp the handle of the door and slam it shut, sliding across the seat and stopping myself with a braced foot against the console when the SUV shoots forward at break-neck speed. I grasp at the seatbelt and crane my neck to look at the fireball receding in the background. Flames twenty feet high, the car completely engulfed.

I slam my hands over my ears, trying to shake out the high-pitched ringing.

He had just casually handed me a bomb without any warning.

"That was fun, right?" Jackson laughs.

"You could have killed me!"

Jackson wiggles a remote in the air. "I didn't hit the trigger till you were safely out of range! Gimme a break."

"You gotta be more careful, man," Aaron chides slowly. "Seriously."

We drive at a dangerous fifty five miles an hour, zig-zagging out of the low income businesses and into neighborhoods with cars parked on both sides.

"Oh hey, hey, check it out, that's Frank," Jackson jerks the wheel and we nearly jump the curb. "Get 'im! Get 'im!"

Aaron grasps a crowbar out from beneath his seat and puts a stocking cap mask over his head.

"Whoa, whoa," I say. "What are you doing?"

Aaron jumps out of the car, dashes over to the shadowed figure walking down the sidewalk, hands in pockets. He slams the crowbar at his calves, and the man goes down with a shout of fear and pain. He brings the crowbar up and over again and hits him once in the shoulder, checks his pockets, and then runs back to the SUV.

He jumps inside. "Go go go!"

Jackson takes off down the street.

"What the hell was that?" I demand. "Who the hell WAS that?"

"None of your biznass," sneers Jackson.

Aaron gives me a stern look. "An old client turn-sex-offender."

"Really?"

"We took our products back and gave him a good beating when he first got convicted, released, registered and moved back. But we still like to remind him we're around keeping an eye on him. Still mad?"

I sit back. "No."

"Good, then shut up," Jackson snaps. "Even if he wasn't a total scumbag, we reserve the right to do whatever the hell we want without you getting all concerned. You can march straight back to that garage and stay there to die for all we care."

"Fine, fine," I respond tightly.

None of this is fine.

...

* * *

 **Alloys, Allies - Tony Stark**

* * *

...

It's been one of those days.

I come to the lab wearing sunglasses and nursing a cup of black, black coffee.

Bruce knows better than to bother me when I look like this, but that doesn't stop him from working around me. He skirts around the lab, making wide circles around me like a wild animal, working on running a beta test on one of the Wakandan exports sent courtesy of his royal Highness. A new Cap shield work-in-progress, attempting to incorporate a bonding-capability without using artificial intelligence.

When the lathe hits resistance on the vibranium and steel alloy, the machine makes a horrible screech and Bruce immediately shuts it down.

"Sorry," he mutters.

I sigh deeply and take another sip of coffee. "Y'know, if we want the shield to get attached to him, maybe we should just set them up on a blind date."

Bruce whips off his glasses. "Are you going to help, or sit in the corner and heckle me?"

"Heckling is more fun. But help I shall." I sit back in my spinny chair and put my feet up. "Artificial intelligence is something we can program to respond to Captain America's desires only, and respond to those he deems worthy, such as throwing the shield to Nat in the midst of battle and letting her catch it instead of decapitate her. It's part of the coding."

Bruce shakes his head. "I'm not having this conversation with you again."

"I'm not suggesting we Ultron this thing, Bruce," I say tiredly. "Hear me out. What if there is a way to replicate coding biologically?"

"Like opening an iphone with a thumbprint?" scoffs Bruce. "Hello, decapitated Nat."

"No I was thinking like… plant life. Sea creatures. Like an urchin reacts and closes up when it senses dangerous presences."

"Hi, Steve, it's Bruce," Bruce mimics, "We made your new shield out of sea urchins."

"Jesus Bruce. Work with me here."

"I see where your logic is going and it sounds like marine biology. Entirely out of my area of expertise."

"Vibranium inventions from that Princess seem to bond easily enough with their hosts. His Highness just has to think about his necklace and it unfolds a nice suit for him. Hello Kitty."

"Are you jealous of Princess Shuri's accomplishments?"

"No, no. Maybe." I chuck a pen annoyingly across my desk. "I also recognize a valuable asset when I see it. What do you think about hiring a long distance-consultant?"

Bruce sighs thoughtfully. "I'll see if I can get her on phone." He looks at the clock. "When their timezone is not sitting down to a royal dinner."

Bucky Barnes knocks on the door frame and steps in. "How goes the progress?" he asks, immediately holding up his hands defensively. "I'm a human radio, I know. Steve sent me."

"We use intercoms nowadays, Barnes," I say. "What about you?"

Bruce ducks back to work, clearly preferring to leave this conversation to me.

"I wish I had a better report on my end," he says, leaning casually against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks all too comfortable. "The only thing we've been able to track so far are how many street criminals are getting shot up or beat up by his crew for not paying on time or being generally horrible individuals." He sighs. "The problem with the Vulture is that he's not as big as he thinks he is. Eighty percent of his clientele are just bad guys in bad neighborhoods. His ties to Hydra are small and intermittent. If we're going to follow the line back to the corruption in Shield, it would be easier to have a Shield agent capture a Hydra agent and torture them to give up names."

"Easier but wrong," Bruce hums more to himself than to us.

"I'm certainly not suggesting it," Barnes says quickly. "Not at all. I'm just saying that unless Vulture really steps out of line here - and he rarely does - it doesn't come up on our radar at all. It goes straight to a local precinct and the New York City police handle it. Some of this is only coming back to us because of Roger's guy on the inside feeding him information."

"So you're saying it's too small scale."

"Exactly."

"Trust me," I say, "He'll step out of line as soon as he tries to sell those microprocessors. Meth-Head-Marty on Vinegar Hill can't afford it. Vulture will draw in someone big… we can't miss it when he does."

"I feel that I'm not making enough progress," Barnes admits.

"Progress is hard to define. I make progress every day." I gesture to the lab sarcastically. "In fact, I'm making progress right now." I take a generous gulp of coffee.

Barnes nods, coming to the realization that I'm not particularly in the mood to give him the details he clearly wants about the new shield. "I'll… I'll let him know."

"Whatever happened with the Russo thing?" I nod over to the Dark Elf weapon now sitting, completely dissected into pieces, on another long metal table. "I was curious about who had the guts to use that thing."

"Vanchat," Barnes replies. "He's come over Shield airwaves many times, he's like the Santa Claus of alien artifacts. Vulture never took him out likely because he didn't try to take over the weapon's market. He dabbled in it. The rest of it was… antiquities. Alien rubble. Not only weaponized technology. He'd probably prefer an Asgardian book of magic spells over a matter-shifting ray-gun."

"I wonder who got his stash when he was arrested," I say, looking at him with a hardness in my eyes I cannot mask.

"Nothing was found when his home was searched."

"He probably had a lair."

"Maybe… none were found."

"Oh, it was found all right," I say sullenly. "Found by the wrong guys and cleaned out. Now there is an empty warehouse somewhere with his name on the lease."

Barnes straightens. "Someday the wrong guys will come out. And we will find them. I don't give up easily. Even when I lose."

Bruce glances over, says nothing. But he looks like he wants to say something.

I make a cross over my forehead and chest; a priest blessing his latest endeavors. "Thus makes you an Avenger, my son," I say in a monotone.

Barnes smirks, nods at Bruce, and leaves the lab.

"So did Fury or you pick the name?" Bruce asks. "I've always wondered. Avengers implies we have to lose first. And that we're somehow more righteous for it. Otherwise we'd just be called the Revengers. And what made you decide that? Couldn't you have thought about calling us the Winners?"

"Hey, you know, if you weren't roaming the Canadian wilderness as the friendly green giant at the time, you could have had some input."

"The Defenders would have worked, it leaves the final result more open-ended. The Warriors. EMA."

"What's EMA?"

"Earth's Mightiest Heroes."

"No one wants to call _the EMA_ for a galactic battle," I sigh. "Sounds like we'd do their taxes for them."

...

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 **Reader Personal Replies :)**

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starnight5: I am SO pleased you are enjoying my story! I realize I have a huge weakness for mafia-esque movies. And movies set in Boston. It was fun translating the idiosyncrasies of Boston criminal underworlds into New Yorker culture. Glad you have joined us on this crazy train!

curry-llama: Peter is actually 18 in my story! :) This is supposed to take place, timeline wise, just after he graduates high-school. There was a very brief moment in his interview where Cap asked him for his age and thought that it was weird he looked younger :) I definitely am writing a little OOC Cap to justify putting Peter in this situation, but I definitely wouldn't make Cap ask anyone younger than "enlisting age" to do anything THIS dangerous! Haha! Cap's got some blind spots in this story, for sure. I also think I have a few hints thrown in at the Netflix/Marvel series, but for the most part I was trying to keep in contained to movie/MCU only. Which was very hard because Wilson Fisk is the most AMAZING mob boss villain ever, and he would give the mobs in The Departed a run for their money! He's probably even a better doppelganger for "Frank" than the Vulture is, to be perfectly honest, lol.

LooneyLovegood1981: Hope you enjoyed their conversation! there's definitely going to be more Stark/Peter interactions in the future. I LOVE their father/son vibes.

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 **NEXT TIME: You won't want to miss this... Peter's very first foray into a real "sale job" from one crime syndicate to a gang leader. Everything goes to shit, and then turns into an absolute nightmare of violence and guilt for Peter Parker.**

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 **You can follow me for random fandom postings on instagram - pippin_strange**

 **Or on my personal account - myapapaya_adventures**


	8. Nightmares Begin Slowly

**Warnings for this chapter: Excessive violence/LOTS of language**

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 **...**

 **...**

 **CHAPTER EIGHT -** **Nightmares Begin Slowly**

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 **...**

* * *

 **Mac's Sale -** _ **Adrian Toomes**_

* * *

...

It's the new kid's first exchange and I'm watching him like a hawk. Or a vulture, I guess.

I still question whether or not he is legit or some sort of spy.

If there was ever a time to find out he was one, it would be the first time he actually has to do something against his moral code. Not so much something _illegal,_ but something that asks him to dirty his hands a little.

As far as Davis told me, he didn't even blink when he blew up a car. Davis was impressed with him, he said, just blew it right up without a single complaint. But that's small potatoes. Boys like to destroy things anyway.

No, the real test comes when something illegal is something so morally wrong that it would physically hurt to turn a blind eye and let it happen.

I remember making my peace with this feeling back in 2013. After my first year of moving operations of my salvage company underground due to Tony Stark's interference with damage control. I remember a sale went south, and I killed the potential client. I remember the fear of getting caught evaporating, remembering there is a reason why I am the best in the business. It's because we're needed. We're not going to get caught as long as we're still needed.

It is not that night for Peter Parker. His time will come to try something morally objectionable, something so corrupt it could even darken his naive heart a little bit.

Tonight is an exchange of goods and money and a little extra fun I've planned. If he can't make it through tonight, well, he has no business working with us, period. The trials get harder as we go along.

Peter is nervous, but he's lost the trembling terrier look, and the cast, too. He only wore it for two weeks by my approximation, meaning he either is a quick healer, or I actually didn't screw his arm up as badly as he thought I did. I don't think I busted him too hard, he just hollered loudly because he's a kid and he was scared outta his mind. But hitting a broken arm few times with a shoe clearly didn't permanently damage him.

I would hope he forgets the whole frisking thing as just part of the initiation. Maybe even comes to like us, be friendly with us. It's better to have the young ones with a history of violence mistake their coworkers for friends. Protects everyone in the long run.

We meet our customers at the waterfront where some industrial company stores empty semi trucks across brown and cement lots.

The open area between lots in front of the Expendables Plus Inc. is ideal for a quick escape without exposure, enough protection without getting claustrophobic. Myself, Davis, Jackson, Schultz, and Peter line up, prepared for any trouble or last-minute negotiations to the previously settled price.

Mac Gargan, flanked by his crew of five, looks strangely pleased with himself tonight.

It makes me fucking uneasy to meet with a client that looks like a cat cornering a mouse.

Especially when we're not mice. I'm the fucking cat tonight.

"There's four other guys here," Peter whispers to me.

"What?" I ask.

"There's four other guys hiding. Warehouse roof, crane, the truck cab, and back by the security tower."

"How the fuck did you see them?"

Peter gives his ear a little tap. "Heard the shoes."

"Jesus Christ," I mutter. I nod at my men. "We might get a little messy, boys," I hiss. It is time to play along thanks to Parker's sonic talents.

"Well, fuck," Jackson sighs.

I jerk my chin towards Mac. "What sort of game are you playing, Mac?"

Mac holds out his hands. "I'm not playing any game. I'm just here to buy the guns I want." He throws a duffel bag down on the ground. "Ten thousand. What we agreed upon."

"Maybe I upped my price," I sneer.

"You can't renegotiate the price, Vulture!" Mac exclaims tiredly. "I just want to get this over with. I DVR'd the game."

A pause, while I consider. All right - not in the mood to be present for his bloodbath tonight.

I nod wordlessly at Schultz. Schultz takes the cases in each hand and walks forward, sets them down, opens them up.

"Semi-automatic rifle with Dark Elf matter-alterations," Schultz narrates, "Three of the Ulton-blaster-guns. Completely remodeled; equipped with computer technology for personal programming. You don't have to just pull a trigger, you can tell it to pull the trigger for you in three minutes."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm already buying it, you can hold the sales pitch." Mac waves his own guy forward to collect the case. "Ten thousand," he repeats firmly. Schultz picks up the money bag and returns to us.

I see Peter shake his head out of the corner of my eye.

Simple. Just the way it should be when we sell to our fellow career criminals who keep creating the demand for our supply.

Three things happen too quickly for me to take stock of which comes first.

I think I hear Peter shout _LOOK OUT_ and before I can react, he's completely body-slammed me against the ground and a gunshot bursts nearby, the clapback echoing painfully against the cement with the ringing pain in my shoulders and back from hitting the ground hard. There's a ricochet and a dusting of broken cement just behind me - would have gone right through me if not for the kid -

I feel rage filling me up. Those extra guests need to work on their aim.

I shove Peter off and drag him to his feet quickly, Mac's wearing a look of panic, shouts incoherently echoing as both parties have their guns sighted at each other's heads, a Mexican stand-off with too many players.

"Who the fuck just shot at me?" I snarl, blood flying off my mouth from biting my lip as I went down. "The fuck is this, Mac?"

"Not us! Not us! Not us!" Mac's crying, though he's got an ordinary handgun pointed at my chest. "I don't know where that came from!"

"Your guys!" Peter Parker is saying, his voice hoarse.

"That's not me!" Mac screams back.

"Fuck you guys!" Jackson shouts back. "You fucking set us up if that's not you up there!"

This time I see it - the shadow.

Climbing down the crane headfirst, elbows sticking out like spider legs, skinny like a corpse painted black.

For the first time in a long time, I feel fear - real fear - curling in my stomach.

 _That_ thing… that creeping, crawling, black-gloved thing coming towards us like a like a schoolgirl in a fucking Japanese horror film - that is absolutely unplanned.

"We've been had," I command. "We're leaving. Back to the car."

Mac nods at his guys too. "Good sale, good sale," he shouts nervously. "But we're getting the fuck outta here."

They begin to back away, guns still pointed at us.

Another shot goes off, this time from the rooftop of the warehouse.

The duffel launches from Schultz's hand, the smell of hot metal erupting in our nostrils. He quickly picks the bag up again, staring at the bullet-sized hole in the canvas upholstery.

"Back, back, back!" I shout, and we begin to run.

Mac's guys run the opposite direction.

Peter takes off towards - the warehouse.

"Fuck, Parker! Get back here!" I shout.

Jackson takes off after him, but damn, the kid is fast.

"Get to the car," I shout. "Th' fuck is Vale?"

Never known for his great timing but never unwelcome, Randy Vale flies through the harbor labyrinth, the SUV's wheels screaming as he drives towards us, wrenching the steering wheel and pulling around, giving us some cover so we can get in.

There's another shot from the other side - this one hits.

One of Mac's guys screams and falls to the ground in a hard slam, skull bouncing off the asphalt. They keep running, clutching their precious cargo and leaving their man shot and bleeding out on the ground.

I lean out of the open window from the front-passenger side. Randy hits the gas and starts to go, but I shout at him to angle out.

"Drive us by the warehouse over there," I point. I can see Jackson's tiny figure now chasing after Parker, who not only outran him as only obscenely young and wiry guys can, but he's pulled himself on the back of a truck bed next to the building.

Peter runs up the empty truck bed, climbs on top of the cab, jumps from the cab to the tall stacks of empty pallets, scales them like a ladder to -

Fuck, this kid is going after the guy on the roof using parkour like those skaters on YouTube. Holy fuck.

Jackson shouts and waves at him from down below.

The kid hooks his hands over the gutter of the warehouse roofline, hoists himself up like he's exiting a swimming pool, and throws his legs over the side.

Then, running down the slanted roof angle and holding out his arms for balance, I watch his dark figure move towards where first shot went off.

We pull up beside Jackson. There's a dead body beside him.

I growl. "Who the fuck is that?"

"Boss, the dude - dude just climbed up the thing, Parker's on the roof," Jackson is breathing hard. "This one, this one," he points at the body of a middle-aged man in black clothes beside him. The man's back and neck are broken. "It looks like a cop to me!"

"So if a cop is shooting, who else was on the roof?"

Jackson shakes his head, looking truly terrified. "Don't know boss, only saw it for a second, the thing was wearing a black scarf 'round his head like a frickin' ninja."

There's more shots back at the plaza, and I wonder if any more of Mac's guys got hit. Honestly, the less the merrier. He's a paranoid little cockroach.

Suddenly another shadow rises from the roof, wearing all black wrappings around his face, hands. Drawing a slightly curved sword from a red belt around his waist.

Fuck. It's an actual literal ninja? What poorly crafted cable show did I just fall into?

The shadow stands and flies towards Peter's approaching figure, blade of steel flashing in the orange hazard lights from the lot. I see Peter duck out of the way, hitting the roof hard and sliding down the decline to the edge. He catches the gutter with his fingers, stopping himself from a deadly fall.

The ninja follows suite, running, but also slipping towards the edge. He swings his sword down to try and cut his clinging hands -

Peter reaches up with one hand, grabs the ankle of the ninja, and yanks backwards as hard as he can.

With a cry, the shadow loses footing, falls over the edge of the roof, and plummets to the cement below. Landing in a crouch, unharmed, but -

Jackson shoots his favorite Chitauri gun.

 _BOOM!_

The ninja's head explodes like a burst watermelon, then crumples to a lifeless heap beside the other dead guy.

Peter pulls himself back up the roof, trots as carefully as he can to the pallets, jumps down to the stack, and then struggles down the side. It's a lot harder going down than it is going up.

"Get the fuck in the car," I say. "We'll leave without Parker if we have to."

Jackson shoulders his weapon, proud of the mess, and climbs in.

There's a sudden flurry of gunshots from both Mac's crew, and figures climbing down from the cranes, the roofline, out from underneath the parked semis, the stacked pallets -

Jesus, these things are everywhere. I count twelve before I lose track.

Peter practically falls off the cab and into the truck bed, throwing himself off, and running as fast as he can back to the SUV. He does a double take at the bodies and nearly trips.

Davis opens the door from him and catches him when he jumps inside.

"Go go go!" he screams.

There's volleys of shots, echoing painfully behind us.

I look out the window. The crawling figure from the crane is running lithely across the plaza, an inordinately long, silver blade in his hands. It stops when it realizes it can't keep up.

Another figure steps out from behind the nearest truck bed, plants his feet, and takes aim for the SUV. Vale zig zags expertly, the shot missing the back window, taking out one of the side mirrors with a burst of shattered glass.

The man firing at us is wearing a bullet proof vest and doesn't see the masked-crawler with the sword sneak stealthily up behind him.

The sword swipes too easily across his throat, and the gunfire instantly stops, the body crumpling to the ground.

Vale keeps pounding on the accelerator, tires screaming and burnt rubber smell filling the air as head for the exit.

"You hit?" I say to the crew.

Everyone's shouting at once.

"Shut the fuck up, all of you," I snap. Vale screeches around the corner, pulling out of the industrial park, and rides the side streets heading for the exit to the freeway.

"Any hits?" I ask.

"We good, boss," gasps Schultz.

"Too fucking close, too fucking close!" Jackson roars angrily. "If Mac didn't set us up then who the fuck were those guys?"

"That was two different - two different things," Schultz says. "Looked like cops and ninjas. Did they fucking coordinate or surprise each other?!"

"Looked like ninjas man, like real ninjas," Davis says calmly.

Why does the man always sound like he just smoked a few joints when he doesn't even smoke? Doesn't anything get his blood pumping?

"Call Mason," I tell him. "Tell him what happened. Ask him if he knows anything about… ninjas."

Davis dials Mason, crawls into the back trunk and talks quietly.

Jackson punches Peter hard in the shoulder. "You don't just take off like that!" he scolds. "Didn't matter if they were ninjas or Mac's guys. You get caught, you get killed. End of story."

"CIA," Peter gasps, pressing the heel of his hand to a nasty cut over one eyebrow.

"What?" I ask. This little dick is way too observant for his own good.

"The guy on the roof had an CIA jacket on."

"I didn't see no CIA."

I did. The man in the bullet proof vest who got his throat cut. The stance, the procedural shooting at the fleeing vehicle - I knew it was CIA.

"The first one, that's who I was after," Peter explains. "He ran up the roof and down the other side. I woulda followed but…"

"Then the ninja came out of nowhere!" Jackson fills in.

"Another ninja got that guy behind us too," Schultz says. He saw what I saw. His phone starts ringing, and he looks at it with surprise. "It's Mac," he says.

"Give it here," I hold out my hand, answering the call. "Talk," I command.

"Fucking CIA," Mac snaps.

"You didn't see the other guys?"

"WHAT other guys? They were shooting, we were running!"

"There was a fourth party."

"Who?"

"Hoping you could tell me. Black scarves? Curved swords?"

"You mean the fucking Hand?"

"Who is that?"

"A literal ninja clan that uses wealthy businessmen as a front for spreading their anarchy and discord. They bust deals all the time and take what they can for themselves."

"And you didn't see them."

"No, fuck, I just heard shots! I lost two guys! Are you telling me the fucking ninjas were there too?"

"We have the ninjas to thank, in fact," I say, nevermind the fact that one did try to kill Parker not three minutes ago. "They went after the CIA agents."

"How'd the fucking CIA know about our sale tonight anyway?" Mac shouts.

"Because you fucking SOLD US OUT," Jackson shouts over my shoulder.

I reach around shove Jackson hard in the chest. "Put your damn seat belt on!" I shout at him. "I will throw you out of this car."

"We didn't sell you out!" Mac exclaims. "It won't do for our business relationship to throw around false accusations!"

"I think I know when we've been stung, Scorpion," I taunt. "See you on the flip side." I hang up the phone and chuck it back to Schultz. "Turn on Kent," I say to Vale. "We're stopping at Bryan's."

"What for?" Davis asks.

"I have every reason to believe that his big mouth is probably the reason for multiple things going wrong tonight," I say. "We're going to take care of it once and for all."

Jackson shouts back to Aaron. "Give me the Chitauri blowtorch."

Aaron hands the gun over the back seat to Schultz, Schultz hands it to Jackson. Jackson trades it for the Chitauri semi-automatic he used to turn the ninja's brain into a strawberry smoothie. The blowtorch is the better choice. It's nearly silent, for one thing.

"Parker, you're going in with me," Jackson snaps.

"Okay?" Peter responds. "What are we doing?"

"Plugging up any potential leaks," I reply. I give Jackson a hard look. "Don't screw around. Just get in and do it fast."

Vale pulls into the sidestreet, the car rumbling quietly into a handicapped spot in front of Bryan's brownstone.

Jackson opens the door. "Let's go, Peter Parkour!"

...

* * *

 **Murderer -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I feel adrenaline sluicing through my veins. Dread winds through my stomach and into my chest, constricting my lungs and bobbing in my throat.

I follow Jackson's shadow up the stairs to the silent, dark-windowed brownstone.

I don't know what Jackson is planning on doing with this massive alien gun in his hands, with purple light twinkling at the muzzle, huge exposed wires lining the barrel, strange cylindric devices attached to bracers in the front.

"When the door opens," Jackson whispers. "We just run straight through the entry and right into that dining room. He's probably in there."

"How do you even know that?"

Jackson looks like he wants to flip me off, but can't, because he's holding a massive gun. "Because I know the habits of the fucking people I work with, Parker," he snaps. He turns and points the gun at the door.

Pulls the trigger -

A hot ray of orange light pierces the door handle, the beam disintegrating right through it, and catching the edges of the door on fire. Jackson lifts the muzzle, and I push the busted door open with my shoe.

Jackson takes off down the dark, long hallway, and I take off after him. Along our right, a huge ornate staircase leads into pitch darkness. On our left, there's a yawning fireplace in an old fashioned parlor. We push through to the end of the hall that opens into a dining room and family room, another door leading back into a kitchen.

A man stands behind his dining room table, wearing nothing but boxers and a gray T-shirt. There's a spilled glass of scotch on the table running and bleeding through a discarded newspaper.

We caught him completely unawares. He only had time to jump to his feet, knock over his drink, and look startled at us bursting through the entrance.

His brown eyes wide with fear, he holds out his hands defensively.

"Brice," he says urgently, panic laced through his voice. "Brice - whatever you want - just ask - just tell me what's going on - whatever you think, I didn't, I didn't…" Bryan grabs the bottle of scotch from the table, hikes his arm back, intending to throw it our way.

"Oh, Bryan, stop, I'm not here to shoot you," Jackson says.

Bryan's arm relaxes.

Jackson pulls the trigger.

The beam of light makes a thick vibrating sound, like a vacuum in reverse, shooting across the room and punching a hole right through Bryan's body.

I can see through the singed edges of his abdomen to the cabinet on the other side, a hole as thick as my fist. The bottle of scotch crashes to the ground and shatters.

The smell of burnt meat fills the air.

Bryan's gray face falls first into the the edge of the table, cracks, and bounces off.

I stare.

I stare.

I stare.

"Oops," Jackson says with a shrug. He reaches over and slaps me hard in the face. "Wake the fuck up," he snaps. "We get in, we get out. Boss's orders."

He turns and begins running back through the hall.

My stomach twists so hard I think I might vomit, but, suddenly robotic in my movements, I find myself turning and running after him.

I hear a creak of footsteps on wood at the top of the stairs.

My spider-senses tell me it is a woman.

A woman tugging a bathrobe around herself, confusedly, taking one tentative step forward.

Just before I shut the broken door behind Jackson and I, there's a sound of a baby crying in an upstairs bedroom.

"Oh god," I whisper, physical pain leaching through my stomach, back, my throat and ears. Maybe _this_ is the heart attack.

That didn't just happen.

This couldn't have.

Spider-Man would have put a stop to this.

This is a nightmare…

I just need to wake up.

Wake up, Spider-Man. Wake up.

It's not worth it. It's not worth it. It's not worth it.

To hell with Hydra. Let Captain America find Hydra on his own steam. Vulture is not worth the effort to track down the moles in Shield.

Vulture and his crew need to be killed or imprisoned.

There is no, no other way. None. That's it.

I'll do it myself if I have to.

I climb into the SUV behind Jackson, shutting the door behind us and dropping into the seat. I methodically put on my seatbelt.

"Bryan's dead," Jackson reports nonchalantly, handing the gun back for the trunk.

"Bout time," the Vulture mutters. "Asshole's been feeding them our shit long enough." He slaps Vale's shoulder. "Let's hit Punzi's."

We are leaving a widow and child behind -

\- and he wants to celebrate with drinks.

The car pulls away from the brownstone and speeds off down the neighborhood again, the dark brown shadows of a neighborhood under orange street lamps look sickly, nightmarish. Like illustrations of hell in old Greek classics from school.

I chose this.

This is my fault.

"On second thought," Toomes looks around the seat at me, and there's something almost like fatherly concern in his expression, but it is hidden behind that white-tooth sneer of his. "I think it's a little past Pedro's bedtime. Drop him off over on Eagle street. While we're in the neighborhood."

I stare at him, my jaw clenched, my heart piercing my chest like a jackknife.

"I guess tonight was your night after all," he muses out loud. "A real make it or break it moment for the youngest recruit."

Jackson scoffs. "Other than holding the door open for me like a real gentleman, he wasn't much help."

"You didn't need my help," I respond slowly. My voice sounds detached from my body. I'm an invisible, omnipresent ventriloquist controlling a body that only looks and sounds like me.

I keep my eyes on Vulture. "I still don't have a gun yet, after all."

"Oh, atta boy, you'll get your turn," Toomes smiles. "I knew you'd pass your test."

"That was a test?" I ask, my voice giving out.

"School's out, kid," Toomes says. "No more teachers, no more books."

"No more teacher's dirty looks," Aaron chimes in.

"Did you get a hold of Mason or what?" Toomes asks angrily.

"Sure thing, boss."

"Well? What the hell did he say?"

"Same thing Mac did. The Hand interrupts sales to steal the goods. They must've gotten distracted by the CIA and decided to take them out instead." Aaron shudders. "Mason says if they hadn't, we'd all be dead. They do not leave survivors. Ever."

"Shit," Toomes turns back to the dashboard. "Now we gotta make friends with them."

Randy Vale slams on the brakes a little too hard at the head of the alleyway on Eagle St.

"Home sweet home," he says to me.

"Thanks," I say shortly. I start to open the door, but Toomes stops me with a look.

I imagine pulling out my web shooters. Web across the mouth, web tying his hands behind his back, dragging him out into the street, stringing him up on a power line for the cops to find… with a note that says MURDERER.

In my fantasy, it turns into a nightmare. They rip aside the web covering his face and it's my face instead.

Standing by and letting it happen is just as bad. No, it's worse.

I could have stopped it…

"The hard part is over, Pedro," Toomes says. "Next time you'll get to pull the trigger yourself."

I give him a dead smirk. "Yeah? With what gun?"

"Smart ass. Get outta here."

I get out of the car and walk down my alley towards the garage door. I hear the SUV disappear, and the street behind me is silent.

The adrenaline wears off instantaneously.

My knees turn to jelly and I fall right over.

Catching myself with one arm braced against the dirt of the lot, struggling to right myself and remembering what it feels like to breathe, to think...

I unlock the deadbolt and go inside my garage, shutting and locking it behind me. This door wouldn't do anything against ninjas, I think. Maybe I'm dead already.

I walk stiltedly over to the counter where I keep the phone.

Numb fingers hitting the call button for the only contact.

Mouth filling with bile, stomach's contents turning up, and over, and splashing onto the cement floor.

The call is ringing. My ears are ringing.

"Yes," says Captain America's voice.

"It's Peter," I say.

I'm gasping for breath. Hyperventilating, and badly. I push my back against the counter and slide down to the floor, hugging my knees and trying to concentrate.

"It's okay," Captain America says soothingly. "Take your time."

Suddenly, and I don't know how, I take a shuddering breath and swallow the shock away. This can't be healthy, but there it is. Survival instinct is kicking in, hard, and fast.

"We need to meet," I say, my voice trembling, but resolute.

"We can meet tonight. Where?"

"I can't," I say shortly. "I can't. I can't meet tonight. I'm sorry. I can't. But we have to meet. But I can't… tonight. Not… not…"

"Deep breaths. It's okay. Stay where you are tonight. We can meet tomorrow morning. Where is a safe place for us to meet you? We can't come there, and you can't come here."

"Across the river? They're keeping things fairly contained to Brooklyn."

"Dress as a tourist and we'll go to a park."

"The Roosevelt Island Ferry terminal. There's a baseball field and a walk on the waterfront."

"We'll be there."

"Fine, fine…"

"You all right?"

"Yes," I lie.

He does not answer at first. "Try again."

"No."

"I'm sorry." I can tell he means it. "Let's go over your options tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

"Try to get some sleep."

"Yes sir." I end the call, and I press a hand on my chest to convince myself it's still there, still breathing, still working.

I don't know how I make myself move. It truly is the work of a puppet.

I sneak into the bathrooms on the business-owned building attached to the back of the garage, and use the sink to wash my hair, hands, arms, and as much else as I can.

When I hear someone coming I dart across the hall again and return to my side.

I crawl into bed. Waiting for sleep.

Waiting still.

 _BRRRVVVTTTT…_

When I close my eyes I hear the sound of the Chitauri blowtorch, beaming a burning hole through the man's stomach. I see his look of horror. I notice things about the room now, things I didn't notice when we walked in. The highchair pulled up to the side of the table. The baby pictures on the fridge. The baby toy underneath the couch.

I dream about going home to Aunt May.

...

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 **Reader Personal Replies :)**

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starnight5: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Keep reading and you'll see how Toomes turns out ;)

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BeccaRave: Thank you SO much, I am so pleased you are enjoying.

* * *

 **NEXT TIME: Peter and Captain America have a long overdue meeting to figure out how to put the brakes on the undercover operation, and then Peter makes a last-minute detour to see about a girl. Things are heating up between Bucky's infatuation with Black Widow while the Winter Soldier tries to make work for the Avengers difficult.**

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 **You can follow me for random fandom postings on instagram - pippin_strange**

 **Or on my personal account - myapapaya_adventures**


	9. Pieces Fall Apart

_Welcome new readers! Thanks for your follows and favorites! I am really glad you've jumped into this little journey with us. Please leave a review if you are new to the story and want to discuss! I love chatting with my readers._

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 **Warnings for this chapter: Some language, violence. Very mild sexual references/interactions**

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 **...**

 **...**

 **CHAPTER NINE - Pieces Fall Apart**

 **…**

 **...**

* * *

 **Roosevelt Rendezvous -** _ **Wade Wilson**_

* * *

We arrive at the ferry terminal right on time, but Peter is already there, leaning against the short wall separating the sidewalk from an icy plunge to the East river. The shadow of the Queensboro bridge keeps his body language difficult to read as we approach. He's resting his crossed arms over the railing, looking down into the water.

"Let me have a go at him first," I say.

Le Capitan turns to me swiftly. "You are _not_ to step out of line, Wilson."

"I would make Johnny Cash a proud, proud papa."

"From what I understand of him, you'd make him roll over in his grave."

"Don't distract me with your hobbies, Rogers," I say indignantly. "Let me gauge just how badly lil' Pete is hurting for a bail-out. Especially with the news of Parsons…"

"I know," Rogers says, and it hurts him to say so. He gives me a sharp look. "Be gentle, will you?"

"Not the scenario I imagined having those words said to me," I put a hand over my heart with enchantment. "Which I imagine all the time. Especially from you. Though there's usually a lot more candles involved. Maybe a bearskin rug. You're into that lumbersexual look, right?"

I trot ahead before he can answer and join Peter at the wall. He registers my presence but makes no move to act as if we know each other.

Gotta give him credit, he's not too bad at this whole sad-Affleck meme.

"Got a light?" I ask.

"Smoking's bad for you," he responds. He sounds like he has a major case of laryngitis.

"Look, I already have cancer," I reply. "It can't do too much else."

His eyes flit over to me. "You have cancer?"

"Long story, different day," I say. "We need to talk about what happened last night."

"Yeah."

Rogers hangs back, crossing his arms over his chest. The man dressed in a brown jacket and a baseball cap, trying to look under-the-radar. He looks like he's about to go on a cross-country espionage trip with a hot redhead girl and a token black guy to save the world.

He crosses over and stands beside me, pulling out a small digital camera circa 2008.

"An off-duty Agent of Shield named Bryan Parsons was murdered last night in his own home," he says quietly.

"...with a gun that looked like it could freeze Gotham," I say. "The grieving widow reported two men breaking into their home - one older with a beard, the other, looked like a young teenager." I plant my chin in my hand, rest my elbow on the wall, and look at him excitedly like Michael Scott sarcastically anticipating a good story. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about THAT, would you?"

Peter bends over the water and curls two fists into his own hair. "I didn't kill him. I didn't know who he was. Never met him before. Never saw him before."

"Go back to the part where you didn't kill him?" I ask.

"You were there," Rogers infers. He pretends to take pictures of the waterfront before returning the camera to his pocket.

He's really taking this tourism disguise seriously.

"I was there," Peter says.

Silence falls for a moment.

" _Hello darkness, my old friend,"_ I sing lightly.

"Tell us what happened," Rogers urges.

"The car pulled up to the house. They told us to go in and see the guy. We broke in, ran to the back," his voice catches, "Jackson Brice shot him, and we ran back out. It was over in a second. I didn't… I didn't know… otherwise… otherwise I would've..."

"You would have stopped it and blown your cover," Rogers answers.

"Yeah. I would have." Peter nods thickly.

"We can arrest you right now if you want," I add gleefully. "Drag you back to the tower."

Peter shrugs. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. I won't lie to you. I don't think I'm - cut out for it? I can't just stand by when someone is murdered."

"It wasn't your fault," Rogers says.

"Well, if you wanna get technical…" I begin.

Rogers gives me a warning look. "Don't even go there."

"What happens if, if," Peter asks stiltedly, "What if it comes down to keeping my cover or pulling the trigger myself? That's the next test… And if it comes to that, I _will_ blow the whole thing. Because I won't be able to pull that trigger. I promise you that."

"Ya know," I suggest, "I wouldn't make promises before you know the target. It could be someone really annoying. And hey, if you're officially a criminal, you can kill whomever you want. Can I make a suggestion, though? You know that Putin guy? Could you start with him? His haircut makes him look like a ballsack."

"I'm not a criminal," Peter says, turning to me fully. "Not… not for _real._ "

"You could be if you wanted to. It would just be as simple as erasing your record with us! We're the only people who know who you really are."

His bloodshot, sleepless eyes widen. "That's not… that's not even funny."

"Wade," Steve Rogers says in a voice not to be fucked with. But what am I here for if not to fuck with a voice that sounds like righteous butter? Patriotic AND lubricating!

"You're just one of Vulture's minions," I continue, baiting him. "Easy peasy. Erase record, bye bye Peter Parker!"

Peter Parker lunges towards me as if he plans on having an old fashioned, manly, forehead-to-forehead disagreement. "What did you say? _You… you CAN'T_ do that!"

I'm utterly delighted I was able to push him to this point. Faith restored! Glory hallelujah! Tiny tiger has claws!

Rogers thrusts his arms through Peter's elbows, jerking him backwards a few steps. "Easy!" he exclaims. "Now is not the time nor the place to make Wade Wilson even uglier than he is now."

I hold up my hands defensively.

"As usual, he was joking, and very badly," Rogers glares over Peter's shoulder at me.

"It's - not - funny," Peter repeats. He tries to wrench himself out of Roger's grasp, but can't unless he wants to go full Rambo.

"But what if I wasn't joking?" I say.

"You done?" Rogers asks.

Both Peter and I answer simultaneously. "Yes."

Rogers lets him go. "Walk it off, kid," he says in that battle-hardened, trench warfare tone we rarely see. Extinct animals are always the sexiest. "If someone saw you lay him out right now, what would they do, huh? Call the police?"

"I'm a little offended he assumes he'd lay me out," I say to the river, my best listener.

Peter paces back and forth, unable to look at either of us, looking one step short of a full blown breakdown. "I wasn't… I wasn't going to _hit_ him."

Cap watches him pace for a moment. "I'll start the process for getting you out. It will take a little more time, though. You're in deeper."

Peter looks at him hopefully. "What's stopping us from arresting the Vulture today? On all the horrible things he's done?"

"Red tape, my friend, red tape. We need the microprocessors to make an appearance before we send in Donut and Lopez to capture the flag in the gulch," I explain. "We need that and we need his guys in Hydra."

"I'm telling you," Peter says, "He's got his contacts for Hydra locked up." He taps at his temple. "I don't think he'd ever tell me. I'm just the new guy he doesn't trust."

"We didn't tell you this before," Rogers says, "But we have reason to believe that there's something going on in Shield… This is more than just getting a name from Vulture. This could mean the fate of the world."

Peter stops moving. "What do you mean?"

"One of our most trusted men in Shield has heard… chatter."

"Who?" Peter demands.

"Nick Fury runs ground operations for Shield. If there's ever a good spy in this world on the side of good, Nick Fury is the one running him." Rogers leans back on the wall. "There's been rumor of a computer code going missing. It has a simple purpose, academically speaking. It evaluates every online activity of a person to determine dangerous patterns."

"Bank records, angry Facebook posts, hashtags, liking tweets, account logins, Netflix binges," I narrate, counting off the possibilities off my fingers. "If it happened online, this code finds it. Catalogues it. Finds patterns of behaviors with their online footprints."

"But what is the purpose?" Peter asks.

"Determining a threat before they're a threat," Rogers responds.

"So declaring someone guilty before they've even done anything," Peter exclaims. "That's... not so good."

"It's just in the beta-testing stage by Shield low-level technicians with a lot of untapped coding smarts," I say. "But the files of the code itself mysteriously and totally not shockingly went missing. Because who _doesn't_ like to up the stakes for the second act just went the protagonist is about to get cold feet and go home?" I sigh. "Don't you find your capability for heroism refreshed and renewed?"

Peter looks scared. "This is beyond me. I don't know what I can do to help."

"Good!" I exclaim quickly. "For reasons entirely my own, I really don't want you spending any extra time looking or thinking about these. It's not like there's a thumb drive up someone's ass for you to extract."

"Leave the missing codes to us," Rogers says.

"Not even us," I correct. "Leave it to me. _I_ got this code thing. You just worry about you."

"I wanted to tell you," Rogers explains, "because Stark and Banner have their own concerns about the codes and the microprocessors disappearing around the same window."

"Imagine the unholy matrimony between a code that looks for threats before they happen, and a computer chip that sends uncannily precise missiles," I make my hands into a yin-yang shape. "We want to make sure these two things _never_ get set up on a blind date, fall in love, and make little terrorism babies. I'll be making sure of that."

Peter nods. "Okay. Okay."

"We're only telling you this so that you're aware of what Stark's worried about, on his preference," I add. "We don't want you to go searching for this, it's not your directive, and you've got your own shit to worry about. I'm being perfectly, deadly, in your-face-serious."

Peter narrows his eyes. "Why did you joke about erasing all records of me?"

"You are a smart one. I wasn't saying it just to get your Calvin Klein's in a bunch."

"Then why say it?"

"Wanted to make sure you still _wanted_ your identity." I grin. "Ever want to figure out really quickly if an undercover has gone to the dark side? Suggest the light side goes away."

Peter hugs his arms and scuffs his toe on the pavement. "Still wasn't funny."

"There's something else I want you to listen for," Rogers looks ashamed of himself for suggesting it. "If… if Hydra has someone in Avengers Tower."

Peter looks at us both, dumbfounded. "Holy shit? You're joking right? This is a joke."

"I'm not saying there is," Rogers says, "But if there was…"

"I'd hear about it before you do," Peter sighs. "This keeps getting worse!"

"Have you heard anything like that?" Rogers asks.

"No… no," Peter shakes his head.

I give the Captain a pointed look. "You thought Vanchat looked like a set up too."

He won't give me the time of day. "I keep my own counsel, thank you. There has been something at the pulse of Avengers Tower that I have been unable to put my finger on. It makes me uneasy. I want all eyes and ears on this, if possible."

Peter nods. "Uh… yeah. All eyes, all ears. Both of them. Yeah."

"If you can do this for me just a little bit longer," Rogers promises. "I'll start making the arrangements for pulling you out. Get me as much information as you can in the meantime."

Peter nods and looks at the water.

"Hang tight for me kid," Rogers says. "Just a little longer."

Poor kid looks like he's considering throwing himself into the water which - to be fair - is not far down enough for suicide. But if he skips the swimming part…

"Penny for your thoughts, dime for a rousing performance of Aretha Franklin," I say. I cross myself.

"Ferry's coming," Peter says shortly. "Got to go back. In case they call."

Rogers takes his shoulder and gives it an encouraging shake. "You're nearly done, just a little longer. You can do this. I have absolute faith in you."

Peter gives him a tired smile. "Okay." He gives me a glance. "I'm really sorry about your cancer, Mr. Wils - Deadpool, sir. _Really_ sorry."

He gives us one last nod each, tucks his hands in his pockets, and trots down the sidewalk for the opening to the ramp. His figure disappears down the platform.

"That's sweet," I say, rather moved. "But did he, uh, forget the part where I can't die?"

"I think he did." Rogers looks at me and sighs. "That's the last time I'm bringing you along. You were causing unnecessary panic."

"Come on. Aren't you completely and totally satisfied now that he's still on our side and that he wasn't the one who popped Bryan Parsons?"

"I was _not_ the one who doubted him," Rogers answers. "I _never_ doubted him."

...

* * *

 **Mind Games -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

* * *

...

The sun is hot on my head and I can hear the screaming tires around the corner.

"I got Falcon coming in from southwest," Stark voices says urgently, scratchy and cutting in and out of the radio feed.

"You got an ETA on that?" I shout into my wrist communicator. My feet pound the concrete, my back and neck drenched in sweat.

"He's five minutes out."

"Damn. You get that bridge up?"

"NYPD can't get it up in time. You'll have to get this without the roadblock."

Sure, I'll get this.

I'll get this easily.

It's _only_ an SUV roaring down the pike at high speeds, skirting around each car, darting in and out of traffic like a laser pointer unable to settle on a target. _Only_ a car that I'm expected to catch up with.

On foot.

I pull on every code of programming, muscle memory, and last-ditch training sessions with Natasha to fuel my pounding veins, pulsing lungs, disintegrating strength. My feet hit the street so hard I could swear I hear tiny rivulets in the asphalt erupt behind me.

I throw both arms up over my head, grasp the edge of a balcony railing, lifting myself up and over and over again, still I've shimmied up the fire escape to the roof of the building.

Nearly there.

I struggle not to think about this morning.

Nearly there...

...

Natasha and I had trained this morning together.

"You're pulling your punches," she had said, angrily.

"Trust me," I had replied, "You want me to."

She had raised one sultry eyebrow. "Don't insult me," she said.

So we sparred again, and this time, I did not pull my punches.

When I saw an opening, I hit her in the mouth. It spun her around in a half circle and she fell so hard on the mat that she bounced off and hit it again.

"Jesus, Nat, shit, I'm sorry…"

I had rushed for her, afraid I had truly hurt her, and when my hands grew close -

Those vixen eyes popped back open, and she wrenched my wrists apart, threw her legs into the air and over my shoulders, wrapping her thighs around my neck and using my own weight to spin me off balance, twisting her body up and over until the apex of her legs caught my airway off at the throat, and I slammed to the ground, each wrist pinned to the mat by her hands.

"Don't ever underestimate me," she said in a voice like a shudder. A breeze before thunder rumbles in the distance. Her lip was bleeding and beginning to swell.

I let out a hacking cough, and she relented her weight, moving her legs slightly back so that her knees pressed into each shoulder.

"Do you give up?" she had asked, tantalizingly.

I stared up at her, unable to answer.

"What do you want, Barnes?" she asks impatiently. "Another round?"

"I…" I hesitated to answer. "I'm afraid to say what I want right now. You've got me in a compromising position."

"The best position," she chuckled, glancing around the gym. There was no one in there but us. She looked down at me again. "I don't want you to pull your punches," she says calmly. "I don't want you to hold back with me - ever."

I nearly shifted then, but thought better of it. "You don't just mean with sparring, do you?"

She reached forward, carefully, and drifted one finger down my temple to my chin. "You're a mystery, Barnes," she said.

"Glad to hear it."

"I don't like puzzles," she said.

"I'm not difficult to figure out."

"You are, actually," her eyes narrowed. "Stop being difficult. Just… stop."

"Want me to tell you all my secrets?"

"I want a little less bullshit," she responded honestly. "Think you can give that a try?"

"With you asking?" I had replied. "How could I not?"

"So tell me something true," she said. "Not something you think I want to hear."

"I'm a little scared," I confessed, after too long of a pause, "That if I don't kiss you now, it will never happen. Ever. And I'll live the rest of my life wondering."

She looked heavenward, shut her eyes, and breathed a soft sigh of resignation. As if she were apologizing to a higher power. I wouldn't have pegged her as religious. The only thing immediately above us were the labs where Stark and Banner slave away, after all.

Well, whatever she prayed too, she clearly felt their forgiveness. Suddenly looking more emboldened than before - somehow, less Natasha, and more Black Widow - she leaned down and kissed me soundly on the mouth.

I felt like an electric shock poured through my esophagus and down to my knees. I tasted a salty glimpse of her blood in my mouth from the split lip.

I kissed her back, as hard as I could, one hand finding her hip, the other grazing the back of her neck. Each nerve ending inside me on fire.

I thought she would've pulled back.

She _should've_ pulled back.

But she didn't.

Her kisses became slower, more deliberate. Her tongue at work like a master's paintbrush, and I was somehow her canvas. Her hand curled into my hair, the other hand pressed against my chest, lifting rhythmically with each questioning breath.

Finally, I stopped her. I took one hand and pressed it to her face, following the cords of skin down her chin, neck. "Nat," I said softly. "I'm not… not…"

"Not what?"

"I don't deserve this," I said, hardly able to believe my own words. "Not the real you. If this is a play, you'll break my heart. If it's real… I'll only disappoint you."

She sat back, looking truly confused. "Am I so difficult to read?"

"Honestly?" I responded. "Maybe. But I like puzzles."

She lifted one knee and gracefully rolled off, holding out a hand to me. I accepted her warm grasp and let her help me to my feet.

For a moment, we only stared at each other.

"I need to know why," she said. "I need to know why you don't think you're good enough to do something that makes you happy."

I shook my head. "It's not a conversation to have today."

"But we will have it," she added. "This conversation. You and I."

"Maybe… I don't know..."

She stepped for me again, looking up into my eyes. They were so warm, and searching, and I felt for a moment she could read my mind - even the parts that weren't mine to control.

"Trust me enough to try," she urged. "Someday."

"Yeah. Someday."

She threaded her arms around my neck, and leaned in close.

How many times did I feel lips so close to my cheek only for the words _Hail Hydra_ to flutter against my skin in a poisonous, compliant whisper?

And how many times I had to say it back?

 _No more, no more, no more… two more, two more, two more shall take it's pla -_

She pressed her lips to the neck, just under my ear. A kiss so gentle I could fold into nothing. But instead, I kissed her hair. It smelled like the gym mat.

"This isn't a, uh, see you later soldier, nice knowing you - right?" I asked nervously.

She pulled back. "I'm not giving up on you, Barnes. Not yet."

I can't shake the feeling she is talking about something else entirely.

But I'm becoming too infatuated to challenge her with my self preservation. I'd rather touch her in blissful ignorance than know the truth and shatter the illusion.

As much as I suspect her, I'm manipulating myself more.

...

 _Focus, Barnes. Focus._

 _Focus on the mission._

SUV spotted from the night an agent of Shield was murdered in his own home.

I get to the edge of the roof, look down, take aim, edging my body towards the precipice.

The SUV whips around the corner.

I drop, full weight, from the roof.

My body lands with a horrible, metallic groan of the SUV roof caving in. The driver inside feels the impact of the hit with a scream of terror and a quick consideration of accelerating even faster, or slamming on the brakes to dislodge whomever - or whatever - landed.

He opts for the brakes.

The tires squeal to stop, my body thrown from the roof to the hood down below. I punch one hand forward to stop myself, my hand going right through the windshield and turning it into a sparkling kaleidoscope of shattered glass. I grasp the edges of it firmly, the Stark-ungraded gloves keeping me from any real damage.

The car bumps to a halt, burnt rubber scents filling the air and smoke unleashing itself from beneath the hood. I peel back the glass like a bubble patterned shower curtain.

"Randy Vale," I greet.

He responds by taking a shot at me with a handgun.

The bullet spits past me, the boom ringing in my ears. I reach into the front of the car the rest of the way, grabbing the gun out of his hands so fast that one moment he shoots, and the next, he blinks and finds himself weaponless.

I toss his gun into the backseat where he can't reach.

And I turn off my radio.

"Barnes?" says Stark. "Barnes! Come in! Damnit - Sam! He's not responding. One shot. I repeat, one shot."

"I'm getting there as soon as I can," I hear Sam respond. "Three minutes out."

"Vale!" I shout. "Listen to me. Put the car in park. NOW!"

He gasps behind his scraggly, unkept beard, his blue baseball cap mushed by the crash. Nearly weeping with surprise and fear at getting caught, he does as I asked.

"You got two minutes before Falcon gets here and we arrest you, take you in, and grill you about Hydra's contacts with the Vulture," I explain. "So here's what I need you to tell me. Vulture's crew cleaned out Vanchat's lair, didn't he?"

"Y-Yes?" Vale responds haltingly. "Who are you again?"

"You still using the space?"

"Partially, but…"

"Call them now. Tell them to clear out. Warn them that we're coming. When we go," I say, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "When we go there today, it needs to be empty. You understand me?"

"Barnes, come in!" Stark says.

"Do it NOW!" I scream.

Vale shakily opens his cell phone and puts it to his ear. "Listen, Boss, I've been had," he says. "They're going to go to Vanchat's old space today, so if you're there, be sure to clear out now!" He looks up at me, scared.

"Tell him _Pierce's guy_ did him one favor. ONE."

"One minute out!" Falcon shouts.

" _Pierce's guy_ did you one favor," Vale answers shakily. "He says thanks, pal?"

"Hang up," I command. "If anyone asks, you know nothing, and I said nothing. Got it?"

"I got it?" Vale responds, hanging up the phone. He looks scared out of his mind.

Serves him damn right for being the getaway vehicle for the guys who took out Agent Bryan Parsons last night. Serves him damn right. Bryan was a good man.

"Bucky, come in!"

"How'd you know about Vanchat's stash, anyway?" Vale asks.

I hear the repulsors of Falcon's wings ignite overhead.

"Lucky guess," I answer.

I wind my fist up and jerk him forward. He gives a scream of shock and pain as I tear him out of the driver's seat, right through the broken windshield, and throw him down on the hood.

With a squeal, he slides off and lands in a crumpled heap on the cement in front of the car, twinkling glass shards falling from his jacket and hair.

I turn my radio back on.

"Stark, sorry, I must have hit it on impact," I apologize, getting off the hood and straightening my jacket. "I'm okay. I'm not hit."

I hear Stark blow a breath of relief. "Good to hear."

"Chocolate missile, coming in," Falcon says, and I hear the sudden rush of hydraulic wind as the metal wings unfold just overhead. He shoots towards the ground and lands in a crouch, straightening to a standing position as the wings begin to tuck in and return to the folds on his back. "Woo!" he exclaims, looking at the shattered windshield, and the man on the pavement. "That looks like it hurt big time!"

Vale lies on his back, hands and elbows shaking as he tries to raise his hands defensively.

"Not hurt enough to hold out," I say.

"What can he give us, exactly? He's the damn chauffeur."

I look at Falcon. "Stark had a theory," I say. "Vanchat had a lair of goodies."

"Damn straight I had a theory," Stark replies.

I bend down and rest on my heels, giving Vale a cold look. "And you're going to tell us exactly where to find it when we get back to the Tower."

"Uh, so bad news on that, bro," Falcon replies. "CIA gets to have him. They're sending a car for him now."

"Why does the CIA get to take him away?"

"Easy answer?" Stark responds. "They have jurisdiction, the blessing of the US goverment, everything. We have a Hulk-sized holding cell as a precaution and no privileges for keeping anyone in them."

"We're just the guys that they want in case the world's about to end," Falcon says. "Hate to break it to you, but there's no alien invasion right now. So. We're just Santa Claus in July."

"This is _our_ mission," I point at Falcon. "You, and me. We should get to see it through."

"Maybe that's how it worked for the Howling Commandos, but it don't work like that here," Falcon's expression softens. "Look, man, I get you're trying to help. I really do. You annoy the shit outta me but I respect that. We turn him over."

"How long before they get here?"

"Uh - three minutes?"

"Hmph," I say, turning and leaning down to Vale, resting on my heels and looking into his eyes. "Gimme the address," I say.

"You're wasting your time, man, he won't give us shit," Falcon sighs.

"Give me the address," I say again. "Now."

"It's… it's… there's no address really… it's Jersey," Vale stutters. "New Jersey. He's got a boxcar stashed in Greenville yard. Just industrial waste-land."

Falcon blinks. "Did you just…?"

"Falcon, you and Rhodie could get there…" Stark exclaims. "You could get there in a few minutes, couldn't you? Before the CIA asks him the same question?"

"Hell yeah we could get there," Falcon jolts his elbows out, and the wings erupt. "Hey Brodes, you wana see the Jersey shore?"

"You people always forget I'm here until you need to volunteer me for something I don't feel like doing," Rhodes's voice sighs over the airway. "I've been playing Tetris in my mask. _Tetris."_

...

* * *

 **Sobriety Garden -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I wait until I spot Captain America and Deadpool leaving the waterfront, strutting down the sidewalk to head back to the street where they parked.

The ferry starts to chug away from the platform, the dark green expanse of the river, glassy and thick with waste, grows wider and wider between me and the semblance of safety. I launch myself over the thin, white railing, landing back on the cement ramp.

No one notices me throw myself over the gap.

I run up the ramp, extracting my phone from my pocket. I turn left under the shadow of the Queensboro bridge, and call the number I memorized.

"Hello?"

"Michelle?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Peter. Peter Parker?"

I hear her mouth fall over with surprise. "Hey," she says, overcompensating the casual. "What's up?"

"Is it a bad time?"

"I didn't think you'd call me."

"It's a bad time, isn't it? I'm sorry." I watch the ferry recede into the distance towards the Astoria terminal. Shoulda stayed on it.

"It's a bad time for phones," Michelle replies. "Listen, I don't get a lot of service here, but… where are you right now?"

"Roosevelt island."

"I got… I got a little while before my shift. I was going to study, but…"

"I can help you study," I say brashly.

"You want to help me study?"

"Why not?"

"I don't want to _study_ with you."

"Oh. Okay." I smile into the phone. "Something else then?"

"I'd rather… hang out."

"I can hang," I grin, thinking about hanging upside down with my webs. I wonder if one could hang upside down and kiss someone like that? "I'm… good at hanging."

"Good!" she exclaims. "So… so… come over."

"Where are you?"

She hesitates. "The Sobriety Garden by my work."

"Yeah. Sure. I'll head over."

"Okay," she says slowly. "Uh. Great. See you soon."

I hang up the phone and I glance around. No one is nearby.

No one is watching.

I leap at the base of the bridge, hands grasping the granite foundation and pulling myself up, and up, hand over hand. I crawl up into the beams that criss-cross beneath the deck of the bridge on which traffic blares by unawares, slightly breathless when I reach the top.

I haven't climbed, haven't swung, in so long. I miss by web shooters. I miss feeling free. I miss being a friendly neighborhood good guy and not hurting other people, or pretending to hurt other people. Or standing by while others get hurt.

That's not me and will never be me.

Swinging from beam to beam like a kid at a playground on the monkey bars, I make my way over the sparkling green river on the other side of Roosevelt island till I can safely scuttle down the base to the top of the cement wall running alongside FDR drive.

My phone buzzes. Not the phone for my connection to the Avengers - the other one.

I answer, my voice sounding like a perfect grin. "Hello!" I say, cheerfully, "Peter speaking!"

"Hi Peter," Mason replies, just as cheerfully. "Boss wants to know if you'll be ready in 10 for pick up."

I feel my stomach bottom out in quivering dread. "I - I can't."

Silence.

"Are you at your usual pick up spot, though?" Mason asks confusedly.

"I'm not. I'm across the river."

I hear a voice mutter near Mason.

And then the Vulture's voice.

"Give me that," he says. "Hello? Pedro?"

"Yes sir."

"You're not ready?"

"No, sir, I'm across the river."

"What the hell are you doing across the river?"

"It's my last appointment," I say.

"Your what?"

"Last appointment," I repeat. "For my arm. Y'know. Bellevue?"

Another pause, heady and trickling with suspicion.

"You got that cast off already."

"But really early," I remind him. "Shoulda been on for three or four weeks. Got them to take it off early. As long as I promised to come back for one last appointment. Just to make sure."

I can hear him weighing my lie, searching for truth, and for hints of deception.

"I'm really sorry, I thought I'd be done by now," I say. "I haven't even seen the doctor yet."

"The follow up appointment you should have been worried about was meeting your crew after a risky elimination," Toomes says evenly. "Bryan's unfortunate demise was necessary, but risky. Disappearing the very next day was not advisable. Not by a long shot."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know. That was my first time."

"How cute," I hear Toomes lean away from the phone and call out. "Don't bother going to the garage, Jackson! He ain't there."

"I'll call Mason as soon as I'm back? I promise."

"You'd better, kid. Get that fucking arm of yours taken care of. Shouldn't have been this much of a bother anyway. Next time we just cut it off, huh?"

I choke out a laugh.

He laughs as if I endear him with my terror and ends the call.

I stand for a moment on the wall, the warmth of sunshine pushing through my jacket and distilling the feverish, icy chills of fear threatening to shake my bones.

It's fine. He took the news well. The fact that I was across the river was nothing but a hiccup in my working relationship.

 _It's fine._

 _It's fine._

 _It's fine._

Yup, just fine.

I walk down the wall till it ends, drop down to the street, and walk on the thin sidewalk until I find an opening where a cab can pull over when I wave it down.

It's only a few miles to the hospital but…

Puppet master at work. I make myself hail a cab, get in the cab, go down the street, get out of the cab, pay the driver. It was only a few extra miles but, I want to spend as much time with MJ as I can before she goes to work.

I want to see her. I want to do something normal. See a pretty girl, talk to a pretty girl. Something so normal in the middle of all this craziness!

The panic attack hits as I walk along the exit from the street to the garden. I'm only a hundred feet away, maybe a hundred and fifty. This close to something so normal -

It starts with the heat, the feeling of pressure closing in on my scalp, running in streams past my ears, hooking its way through my heart and trying to yank it back out through my chest.

The panic is a barbed harpoon and my lungs are the latest catch.

I puke up my breakfast, which splashes into the gutter with a steamy smell of bile and peanut butter.

I bend over, hands on knees, and breathe through it. The nausea lingers, but the heat finally dissipates. I feel gray and thin when it passes, my throat burning.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Definitely won't be kissing anyone anytime soon! Or I do the safe thing and kiss her hand.

Wait, in what universe would I be kissing her hand?

Would this be before or after she grants me her favor with the wave of a white hanky at my latest jousting tournament?

"Fuck this chemistry shit," I hear her mutter before I see her.

I step through the walled entrance to the open-aired garden. Stacks of parked cars frame one side, the other looks over the wall back into FDR street braced with tall, red skyscrapers. Beyond is a glint of the waterfront, which admittedly, might be a more… romantic place.

Not that the garden isn't cool. There's sculptures and plaques. A path winding between the sparse, spindly trees. A really big sculpture in the middle that is shaped like heaving ribbons of black, molten metal folding in on itself to create a sort of mouth shape.

Not… not that I need a romantic venue. Now is not the time to start something.

"Hi," I say. She's sitting on one of the benches, a textbook open on her lap.

She glances up as if we didn't plan to meet here. "Hey," she says, slamming the book shut. "I think I was about to stab myself with a pencil, so, good timing."

"What are you working on?"

"It's the human diet chapter."

"So… eating lots of kale?" I suggest, grinning.

Her hair still has those loose curls that cannot be tied back, her baggy jeans and brown hoodie looking like she raided a brother's closet for today's outfit. But she still looks stunning to me - those eyes. That smirk that she's giving me.

"More like, the human body needs this integral component of the coenzymes…" she starts to read a flash card, but shows it to me instead.

It's a full paragraph and covers the entire index card. Ugh.

"I miss school," I sigh. "I was sorta good at it."

"Shoulda joined the team," she says shortly, flipping the card over, and reading the other side. She sighs in defeat. "I will never understand why…"

"Why what?"

"Why our generation does not get enough riboflavin."

"Riboflavin?"

"Riboflavin," she responds, that dry, unaffected tone making her sound like a bored chemistry teacher just hoping for the day the school burns down on accident. "Um… Vitamin B."

"Oh that's easy," I grin, not even looking at her card. "C-17-H-20-N-4-O-6."

She gives me a glare. "The hell is that?"

"It's the scientific formula," I respond.

She reopens the textbook with a challenging look, skimming her finger down the spine to find the page. "You're right." She looks back up at me. "So chemistry was your thing."

"I was good at it once."

"Science and math."

"Yeah."

"Chemistry was not my thing," she sighs and shuts the book again. "Never got _bad_ grades in it because I'm effing smart, but I preferred reading and drawing. I was good at it."

"Was? I'm sure you're still good at it."

"Maybe, I only do it for fun now."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm a nursing student now?"

"You can still do the things you love," I answer.

"Oh, yeah," she challenges, "I'll follow your advice when you do, Parker."

I give her a guilty smile. "So… why choose nursing?"

"I'm out of highschool now, I need to go to college to earn a degree for a job that makes money," she shrugs. "Can't draw myself into affording groceries."

"I remember liking your drawings at school."

"I can't remember ever showing my sketchbook to you."

"Yeah - but - you left your art around. Caricatures on the bulletin board... That cartoon on the fourth stall from the left on the second floor bathroom…"

She snorts, proud of the day she managed to sneak in and out of the boy's bathroom, uncaught, and leave some impressively sarcastic sharpie-art on the stall door about STD statistics.

"Does talking to patients help you feel good about becoming a nurse?" I ask.

"What, like you?"

"No, I mean, like, while you're working."

"Sometimes. If I'm giving good news."

"How often do you give bad news?"

"I'm not allowed to give bad news. I can tell someone their BP looks great. If it doesn't, I just recite the numbers. If it means anything the doctor goes in and gives them the speech about high blood pressure and preventative measures." She shrugs "That will change when I'm no longer a student."

"What if they ask, though? Do you have to lie to them?"

"Sort of. I can't… diagnose them. I can say the numbers 'seem a little high'."

"That must be frustrating for you," I say. "As observant and factual as you are."

She gives me an appreciative look. "It is frustrating, thanks for noticing." She gives another index card a casual glance. "How often do you lie for your job?"

I cough, and try to give her a shaky grin. "Oh, uh, you don't wana know."

"What do you do?" she asks pointedly. "You didn't tell me before."

I should have come up with an answer for this ages ago. I open my mouth, and shut it.

"Oh, uh, I do a… well… it's sort of a collection and delivery goods service… drive around a lot… talk to angry customers…"

She looks like she's patiently waiting for my lie to fizzle out. "I saw an article online about your arrest," she says simply.

"...Oh."

"It's okay to admit if you've had a hard time finding a real job after that."

I shake my head. "I got a job."

"I know. But maybe not a good one."

I look away. "Sure."

"I've been told I'm good at reading people."

"Really?" I joke. "You've been told that?"

"I'm picking up maybe this adjustment hasn't gone well for you," she says. "Have you talked to anybody about prison?"

"About prison?" I repeat. "What, like, the other inmates? The food? The showers?"

She hesitates on her next question. "Did something happen to you… in…"

"No, no!" I squeak quickly. "Nothing like that. I mean, I got a little roughed up here and there, just a few big guys feeling punchy. I avoided them easily enough. But nothing like… like…"

"Yeah, okay, just, checking…" She gives me a raised eyebrow. "You're probably wondering why I wanted to meet with you even though you were arrested for assault."

"Um…"

"I don't think you did everything they said you did."

"Why not?"

"I met you first," she says simply. "There's no effing way you would throw a pissy fit because an interview went badly."

I shrug and give her a smile. "But it was for a really good job."

"With the AVENGERS?" she says with disbelief.

"More like an internship with Mr. Stark."

"They had you arrested," she repeats. "It couldn't have been that great. There's more to the story and I know there is. It's fine if you don't tell me."

"I wish I could, it's just…"

"You 'can't'?"

"Yeah."

"Otherwise you'd have to lie."

"Is it weird if I've found out I'm really good at lying?" I ask.

"But you're terrible at lying."

"That's what makes me so good at it," I confess. "Everyone knows that. So I lie through something and either they accept it as a lie or they know I can't lie so they assume it's the truth."

"That makes NO sense."

"I'm sorry, I'm really…"

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Wait, what?"

"Sleeping," MJ draws out each syllable. "Are you sleeping?"

"Not really."

"When was the last time you had a solid night of sleep?"

"Like… three weeks ago?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes…?"

"Jesus, Peter," she looks up at the hospital building leering over us. Then her expression changes, and she gives me a sharp look. It travels down my face, to my chest, legs, and back again to my face. Suddenly she presses the back of her hand to my forehead.

"Again with the temperature thing?" I ask nervously.

"You look like you have the flu."

"I… I don't," I say. "I just, I was having - uh, uh… sort of uh… MOMENT… earlier…"

"A _moment."_

"I have anxiety," I try to shrug it off. "Lots of people have anxiety."

"Treated. _Treated_ anxiety," MJ says. "Lots of people have it. And get it treated. Have you told anyone?"

"Other than you? No…?" I say. "Should I? I mean, I don't know anything about… it. I just. Can't sleep. Sometimes throw up."

"Did you throw up when you were having this moment?"

"Yes," I admit. "It's gross. I know. I'm sorry."

"So you had a panic attack and then you called me?" MJ looks actually hurt. "Cuz I'm just the nurse you met and you didn't know what else to do…?"

"No, no, MJ," I say quickly. I reach for her arm, but think better of it.

She shifts away. "I agreed to let you come here to _my_ special place, against every instinct I have - meeting me here to see, to see if - if we could be friends, and, you're just, what, thinking I'm an easy way to get into our stock cupboards? Is that it?"

"That's not true."

"Think I can just open a drawer and pull out a few pills for you? Sneak it out in my bag for you? Become your dealer?"

"MJ, stop," I say. "I already called you. The panic attack was on my way here. I promise. I wasn't seeking you out like… like… like I was..."

"Exhibiting drug seeking behavior?"

"Right! I would never do that!" I try to reassure her. "I wanted to see _you._ Like, like a friend."

"If I offered you drugs, though, to help you sleep," she says stiffly, "Would you take them?"

I tilt my head. "Uh… isn't that illegal?"

She doesn't answer.

"If that put your job in jeopardy, I would never, never accept that. Ever. Especially if it's illegal. Is it illegal? If it is - no, I don't think so. It'd be a bad idea. Really bad."

"So you're not basketball-diaries-ing this thing."

"NO," I say firmly.

"But you admit you would want them, if you could have them."

"I'm trying to be honest with you," I say with a little frustration. "Can I admit that I'm trying to feel normal? I just wouldn't go about it the wrong way. I'm not _that_ kind of criminal."

"I don't know that people who have been released from prison are still called 'criminals'," she says. "I think there's a word for someone post-bail. Ex-con." She puts her textbook into her book bag. "Unless you just admitted what sort of job you have. Something criminal."

I blink. "No."

Also, yes.

"Maybe sometime when you feel like being honest with me," she says, "We can give this friendship thing a try."

I feel crushed. "But not now?"

"It's up to you." She puts her book bag over her shoulder.

"Why is making friends so hard?" I ask.

"It's easier to observe and study than it is to invest emotionally. It's not supernatural."

"I'm sorry you thought I was trying to use you."

She pauses, and sighs. "I'm sorry I suspected you. If I assume the worst in people it keeps me from being disappointed. Fatal flaw of mine."

We stare at each other for a moment.

"Will you call me again?" MJ asks. "If you… if you are… having another moment?"

"I thought it was upsetting if I had?" I say, confused. "Because it would be, like, using you. I don't want to use you. I want to be… friends."

"Here's the thing I've observed about friends, not that I know from personal experience," she says, "Is that they can call anytime. Now that we've cleared the air and I know you don't have some sort of weird expectations of me being your super secret drug dealer, you can call if you need me."

"As a friend and a nurse?"

"Nursing STUDENT," she corrects again. "And yes. If you ever need someone to talk you down in a _moment_. I will help you."

"I'm not like, depressed or anything," I say.

She gives me a doubtful look. "Okay. Sure. But, if you still need someone, to talk you out of a bad place…"

"I'm not gonna, like, drink and hold a gun to my head and call you like that," I say quickly.

"The fact you'd even _say_ that makes me wonder."

"Don't… don't assume the worst about me? Please."

"Okay, I won't," she says softly.

"You've changed a lot since school," I observe. "You're more empathetic."

"It's called growing up," she rolls her eyes. "It's _not_ the most fun I've ever had." She looks over at the hospital building again, the tired asphalt driveway between FDR and the parking lot littered with papers, an idling ambulance. "I have to go," she says quietly. She hugs her book bag and stands up.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee sometime?" I ask.

 _Left field._

 _Completely left field._

It just, fell out of me.

"Like a date?" she asks, baffled.

 _What the hell, Peter? You are literally a double agent for a living and you're asking her out? What if this puts her in danger?_

I nod. "Yeah."

 _I'm selfish and a liar and a horrible person and she's so beautiful and smart and good and funny I can't think of anything except giving myself more chances to see her smile -_

She looks back at the building, then back at me. "Okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She smiles. A real, genuine smile. "Against my better judgment."

"I'm not as crazy as I sound, look, or act," I say. "I promise."

"Oh, that's reassuring," she laughs. "Call me sometime, Peter Parker. No," she corrects, "Call me anytime. I mean it."

"Thanks."

"Okay," she takes a step back. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, course," I reply, giving her a smile. "Have a good shift."

She smiles and walks backwards for a moment, eyes lingering, and then finally turning and trotting with a tired, shuffling walk in no particular hurry towards the back entrance.

As soon as she's inside -

I burst off the park bench like a grenade, running as fast as I can back down the sidewalk. I'm pulling my phone out of my pocket as I run, panting, lungs pumping with the sudden speed and lack of energy.

"Mason here," he answers.

"Mason," I heave, "How badly did I screw this up? Is it too late?"

"Uh, uh, well, no," Mason responds, sounding concerned. "I mean, you didn't screw up. Not really. Boss was irritated because he likes your skills but it's okay. It's too late to join them on this job, but there's another thing tonight."

"What sort of thing?"

"Oh, no, no, I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"I mean, I can tell you about the job tonight, but that doesn't mean you get to go. If the boss wants you, he'll have me call you."

"That's okay. I might as well know anyway so I can be ready if he does."

"We have a big buy going down tonight. A really, really big one. One of the most feared illegal exports dealers in the world is coming _here,_ to New York, _tonight,_ to buy the microprocessors."

"Whatever the hell those are..." I say quickly. "If it goes well, maybe we get a bonus."

"That would be nice," Mason sighs. "I have a niece that could really use some help with her dental bills."

Oh, good, endangering the lives of millions so that a kid can get braces. Great.

"Listen," I say, "I'll be ready in case the boss wants me in on this. Tell him I'm heading back to the garage now, it might take a while. But I am available tonight for anything."

"I'll tell him right away!" Mason promises.

"Thanks, Mason. You're the best."

Mason makes a smiley, coughing sound. "Hey, you know, I know we're never met or anything, but you seem like a stand up guy. Thanks. It really means a lot, you know? I work really hard and rarely get… like, recognized for it. So thanks. I'll sing your praises to Bossman."

"Really. Thank you."

I end the call.

When I get to the bottom of the bridge, I look across the river.

Or I disappear. Run away from it all. Pretend to attack Avengers tower again while I'm on this side of Manhattan so that they _have_ to take me in. Then I'm safe in a holding cell at the tower and no one can get to me, not even Vulture.

It's tempting.

This time, I follow the onramp for pedestrians and walk the bridge like a normal person. It was risky climbing up underneath it today. If local police had spotted me from the island, or from shore, and I had gotten busted… it could have been really, really bad.

It was dumb and I won't do it again.

Tonight is the big night.

I dial my attorney's number again.

"Hello," answers Captain America.

"Cap," I say, "Tonight's the night. They're selling the microprocessors tonight. They said they got the most _feared illegal export dealer in the world._ I don't know who that is, but it's supposed to go down tonight."

I can hear how pleased he is. "We have an idea of who that might be."

"If they buy it tonight and you guys get them, I'll be done soon, right?"

"That's right."

"I'll call you when I know more. I only have the basics now. But they said tonight. I don't even know if Vulture will let me go, but I'll try and get there."

"Peter, we're going to have you out of that hell-hole sooner than expected. I know we will. Thank you for telling me." Captain America shouts something off mic to Deadpool. "Tonight's the big night. We need to get ready."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 _Hello Readers!_

 _If there is a Thanksgiving holiday where you live, I hope to post another chapter on that day (for me that's Thursday, November 22nd). Do you guys have any thanksgiving traditions? Anything cool planned for this next weekend if not? Looking forward to "seeing" you guys again when I have a long weekend! Lots of writing will get done I hope._

 _Love,_

 _Pip_

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 **...**

 **Reader Personal Replies**

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LooneyLovegood1981: Thank you so much! did you enjoy the meeting between the three of them? I had a blast writing it. Felt like Deadpool really started to come into his own here, I treaded carefully when I first started writing him a few chapters ago, but then I really got comfortable and decided to let him loose with his jokes!

Tightpants182: Thank you SO much, wow, what a compliment, I'm dying. Thank you. If you feel like you're right there with Peter, I apologize in advance for future intense crime-fighting content where maybe you're not going to want to be there lol

parisindy: Welcome, thank you so much for joining our little group! Please enjoy! Do send a review if you like what you've read so far and what you think of it!

curry-llama: Ahhh Australia! I love it! Yeah other countries definitely have different drinking laws, the USA is just crazy. like we can buy a gun at age 18 but not a beer?! what the crap? lol. Thank you so much for all the thoughtfulness you put into your reviews, it means a lot! really! It's easy to keep up that slow build of intrigue and intensity (higher heart rates!) because the film this is based on is excellently paced and truly a master of intensity. I definitely recommend watching it when you're done reading my story - if you watch it now you'll get too many spoilers ;)

BeccaRave: Bless you, thank you for your review!

* * *

 **NEXT TIME:** It's the night of the big sale for the microprocessors - and supposedly, the end of Peter's undercover career. The Vulture wants to sell to the world's most renowned, murderous collector of international weapons, and the Avengers will be there to stop it from happening...

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 **You can follow me for random fandom postings on instagram - pippin_strange**

 **Or on my personal account - myapapaya_adventures**


	10. Going South

_Hello readers! I am overwhelmed by your thoughtful reviews, and as always, you silent readers who favorite and follow. I appreciate all of you. Thanks for joining. As usual, personal responses are at the end, and warnings precede each chapter. I hope you all had an amazing Thanksgiving. I was really hoping to post this chapter on that day, but wow, it was super long and way busier than I thought! Any of you getting ready for Christmas? Any unique traditions you'd like to share? Do you let us know in your review ;) I'd love to read about them!_

 _Hugs,_

 _-Pip_

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Warnings: PTSD, anxiety, language, violence.

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...

 **CHAPTER TEN - Going South**

…

* * *

 **PTSD - Tony Stark**

* * *

I feel the anticipation of what's happening tonight skirting my spine in chills.

Okay, it's not so much anticipation as it is the cusp of another panic attack.

At the least effective moment, I walked through a dark doorway and thought about the portal closing behind me during the battle of New York. Then the flashback begins.

All it took was the imagery, that metallic smell of a post janitorial floor-mopping, and I'm back in space, free-falling.

Wondering if I'll be trapped there forever. Wondering if I'll ever see Pepper again.

My heart rate is jacked, and my hands shake.

Breathe through it. Breathe, breathe through it.

"You all right?" Steve asks.

"Yes, I'm all right," I say, crushing an empty styrofoam coffee cup in my hand and chucking into a nearby garbage bin. "Just dandy. You?"

"I'm good," he says. "We're going to nail this guy tonight. I just feel it."

"Who are we nailing? Why was I not invited?" Wade calls across the nearby table.

I ignore him. "The info from your guy is good?"

"It's good," Steve assures. "He got called in. He got the details to us safely. And we were lucky. They were planning on using Vanchat's boxcar as a holding ground, taking care of the exchange there in the empty lot. But since you guys found it this morning…"

"Last minute improvisations," I finish. "We took his safe spot, so they had to pick a new place last-minute. Across river and more exposed."

"Less places for the fucking Hand to hide in," Wade calls again. "You guys heard about them, right? Killing a bunch of CIA guys?"

"The CIA shouldn't have been there," I snort. "That was Bryan's last mistake."

"He must have thought he was outing them," Steve admonishes. "He was trying to do the right thing. He was Shield's double agent, and he had no idea we had the same play."

"What I don't fucking understand is how Bryan Parsons, double-agent-of-Shield, is somehow responsible for the CIA's involvement," Wade exclaims. "Honestly? I didn't ping him as being that bright of a guy to realize that the best way to hide Shield was to tip off the OTHER agency. It's fucking ludicrous. Someone else had to have done it."

"Shield? CIA? Doesn't matter, they do nothing but get in the way," I sigh. "They have to leave the big ones to us. They're too uninformed and they do this shit anyway. This time, Shield is blissfully unaware…"

"Brock Rumlow isn't crashing our party like some tipsy middle-aged mother named Karen," Wade adds. "Stopping by after Billy's soccer practice to give us shit about every little detail..."

"The thing I don't like is doing this without…" I pause.

"You want to get back in?" Steve asks, rather hopefully.

"What, suit up?" I ask. "And endanger your guy on the inside? Hell no. Falcon and Rhodes can go if the Vulture's wings make an appearance. Otherwise, we're too easily spotted. I much prefer Vision and Wanda's gimmick. Vision will be on ground, transparent, and listening in. Hawkeye has eyes from a nest. And Wanda is our new IT guy. Isn't that right, Maximoff?"

Wanda looks at me coolly from behind a computer monitor. "This is a waste of my talent."

"Ouch," I reply. "But without your electrical manipulation…"

"You hear nothing from this distance without being able to rig the entire building with far more advanced notice," she finishes my sentence. "I know. You've said it already."

"So you got in without wiring up the place," Steve says.

"There's no time to go in with dwarf-drones," I respond. "They'd be spotted and shut down as soon as they walk in. But Redwing and Wanda's manipulating of the signal for long range… literally _nothing_ will appear on their end. No radio waves, no spikes in energy - nothing. She's invisible to them."

"We'll see it and hear it on those screens over there," Wanda points across the room. "I would have taken a longer vacation if I knew you wanted me to be your CCTV."

"What's Redwing?" Barnes's voice appears out of nowhere. He walks up casually, hands crossed over his chest, looking defensive already.

Oh, goody, Balto was able to join us.

"It's the Stark Drone MK82 922 V 80Z V2 Prototype Unit," I recite, enjoying the look on his face go from idle curiosity to miffed. I don't bother explaining further.

"It's going to get us the video feed," Steve shoots me an annoyed expression.

"Yeah, that," I add.

While the conversation with Steve helped distract me, I feel a surge of panic again. This is not the time for an anxiety attack. I have work to do.

"You want a cup of coffee?" I ask Barnes suddenly. "Cream? Sugar? Black? Blond? What, you like with chocolate and whipped cream and shit? Are you a fifteen year old girl? Great. I'll make it happen. Don't gossip about anything important till I get back."

I turn and walk stiltedly away.

Walk it off, Stark.

Walk it off. Walk, it, off.

Nausea cramps my stomach and lungs, sweat trickling down my neck.

I nearly run into Bruce coming through the dark, yawning doorway. Before I even have a chance to say anything, he reaches over, and turns on the hall light.

Fluorescence floods the observation room, multiple monitors and computers over work-tables and on the walls. Behind them, a window looks out onto the dark New York skyline. Each window glitters like another star in space.

Deep, deep, space.

And a portal slowly pushing shut behind me, the gravity decreasing...

"Whoa, slow down," Bruce puts out a hand to stop me from fleeing the room. "Work is this way."

"I've got to get out of here, Bruce," I say in a whisper. "I'm going to go crazy or shit myself. Do you want me to shit myself?"

Bruce clasps my shoulder and pushes me back. "I'm assuming your talking about a panic attack."

"Just let me go lie down in the hallway. There's nothing a little cold cement can't cure."

"How long d'these things usually last?"

"Nine minutes, forty seconds," I say shortly.

"How long has it been going?"

"...Four."

"Okay, so you only have five and a half minutes left," he says calmly. "Go sit in the corner and drink some ice water for… six minutes. Round it up."

"Did I miss the part where you became a different kind of doctor?"

"That's not the doctor speaking, that's the friend," Bruce points at himself like I didn't know which person he was talking about. "Just try it, Tony."

"Fine," I answer shortly. "Fine."

...

* * *

 **Leak -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

* * *

...

I watch Stark flee the conversation like a startled animal. Bruce stops him at the door and they go sit at a table in the corner.

"I know it's not easy," Steve begins.

"It's fine," I hold out a hand. "Really. Steve. It's fine. They're just getting used to me being here. _I'm_ still getting used to being here."

"Right," Steve nods. "I'm sorry we didn't call you in. We were distracted. But now that you're here…"

"I might as well help out, if I can." I point to a place on the screens where there's only a black stripe of darkness. "Why is there a blind spot there? We'd have a better look at Vulture's crew."

"Redwing can only pick up so much," Steve replies. "We have Vision as close as we can.

Hawkeye is on exit points. Wanda? Is there any way you can…"

Her eyes pop open, and the screens flicker. "I manipulate the signal of Redwing to increase the distance," she says firmly, "I cannot magically create an image of a dark corner in a warehouse several miles away where there is _no technology."_

"What if we sent another drone in?" I suggest.

"I'm sorry, who invited you again?" Wade snaps.

"Do you have a problem?" I ask evenly.

"Sure, because a tiny flying saucer coming through the door won't give us away at all," Wade snorts. He grabs his red and black mask from the table. "I'm fully prepared to go in. Stark, do you wana German blitzkrieg this thing?"

"Everyone just hold your position," Steve snaps at Wade. "We're not doing anything drastic. Let's see how the sale pans out." He turns to me and gives me a smile. "You okay with the overtime? No date to rush off to?"

"I don't remember telling you anything about my dating life," I respond.

"I know you. And I know when you're falling for someone."

"We're taking things slow," I chuckle. "Don't make a big deal out of it. If you freak out, I'll freak out. Let me call her real quick and let her know the change of plans. I'd rather be here to help, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." Steve claps my shoulder and walks away from me, heading for the front of the room.

My shoulders tense up. I feel my eyes - they change. It's almost as if I can hear them glazing over, my jaw clenching.

The words echoing in my brain - typical. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian. Doesn't matter which one they are anymore. It's so ingrained that I could easily rip out my own liver with my bare hands if I was compelled to.

I can't make it stop unless I put a bullet in my own head, which I'm not supposed to be able to do, anyway. I know _that's_ against my programming. I'm monetarily valuable.

I guess I won't know until I try pulling the trigger someday.

I walk over to the furthest corner of the room where there is a small coffee station set up. I absently poor black coffee while I dial the Vulture.

"Hey, beautiful," I say quietly. "Change of plans tonight. I'm working late."

"Screw you, asshole," Toomes laughs. "I cooked us a nice dinner and everything."

"We'll have to do it tomorrow."

"I'm not changing anything for tomorrow."

"What about lunch?"

"I'm still doing my effing job tonight. What? They got our location? Eyes and ears?"

"All you can eat buffet."

"That's fine, it will make losing even more disappointing for them," Toomes sighs. "We'll be careful, but we won't guarantee shit. How many guys do they actually have on the ground?"

"Two reservations will do it," I reply. "One for dinner, in the booth by the wall we like so much. The second will be for dessert, maybe somewhere with a view. I mean, a really good view. Somewhere high."

I stop. I feel Wade Wilson's presence bearing down on me before I even see him. But there he is, sidling slowly beside me from the right, his eyes piercing me from his lacerated, scarred face.

"Okay, I get it," Toomes says gruffly.

I give Wade a casual glance, holding up one finger to ask him to wait patiently.

"Look, I like ice cream as much as you do, but that's the type of place for… fancy French feasts," I respond. "If you like it, I'll like it."

"I don't even know what the hell you're saying anymore and I've pretty much given up," Toomes says, annoyingly. "So we've got a douchebag hiding up high, and one in the wall?"

"Exactly," I say, thinking of Nat. "You're the best."

"Anything for you, sweetheart," Toomes replies in a murderous tone. He ends the call.

When I hear dial tone, I whisper, "Yeah, yeah. Love you too." I turn and look at Deadpool with a look of impatience. "Can I help you, soldier?" I ask.

"Just eavesdropping," he responds a little too honestly.

I open my mouth to shoot back a nasty, and totally un-Bucky response.

"Alright, Avengers, listen up," Steve announces. "Tonight is the big night. Our man on the inside said they are selling the microprocessors. We've got eyes and ears on the inside, but we are keeping our distance to make sure the exchange takes place. We want to get the equipment back, nail the Vulture, and do it all without outing our undercover - if even _one_ of those guys gets away, even if we get the hardware back, it puts our informant in considerable danger. Got it?"

Everyone responds with murmurs of assent.

"We'll get a signal from our man on the inside when the microprocessors change hands. If we can chase down the parties separately, it's safer for everyone. A team goes after Vulture. That's Vision, Hawkeye, Widow. Make all the arrests look good until they're in holding, and then I can pull our guy out. B team goes after the buyers with the microprocessors. That's Falcon, Rhodes, and Lang."

"I thought Lang went back to San Francisco," I say to Wade.

He gives me a look. "So he tiny'd up in some guy's toupee who had a United flight booked to New York yesterday. And for once, some totally horrible customer-service nightmare didn't happen on a United flight! So he's here now. Isn't it great how people show up to do their jobs sometimes?"

"So why don't you show up more?" I ask.

"I'm the back up," he says. "Just watch the show and enjoy. There's a reason all the second-stringers are doing the groundwork today."

It seems unfair to call them second stringers just because they aren't Stark, Rogers, Banner. They're Avengers just as much as they are.

"What's that reason?" I ask stiffly.

"Easy," Wade replies. "These old limp noodles are trying to retire. Contracts are up, bucko. They have been for… like, three or four _years._ "

Yeah, right. They'll retire when they're dead.

I see Wanda Maximoff tense up, her eyes glowing faintly red, before she shuts them and appears to be concentrating in a sort of meditative state. "They're here," she says.

"You owe a dollar to the jar," Wade mutters. "The jar of every cliche line in every science fiction genre movie ever."

"That's definitely from Poltergeist," Stark says shrilly. "If you're going to pop-culture reference - which I despise - get it right, please."

"I really appreciate you knowing

"Get Redwing closer," Steve says to Falcon over the monitors.

We watch the screens intently. A few SUVs pull up to the edge of the warehouse, unloading Vulture's crew like maggots. There's a lot of new people that I don't recognize.

They're really packing tonight.

"That's Adrian Toomes, Herman Schultz, Peter Parker, Jackson Brice, Aaron Davis," narrates Steve, pointing at their figures as they file in. "Vulture's hand-picked favorites."

"Those ten other guys are red-shirts," Stark says, approaching us at the screens. His coloring looks improved from earlier. "Stockpile crew members only called in when they need numbers and hands. Vulture probably doesn't intend for any of them to be used more than once, or he intends for them to at least die when they're under his watch. It's easier to dispose of potential leaks and get new ones."

"Who are they meeting?" I ask.

Stark points to a space of darkness on one side of the screen, where eight figures in black clothing approach Vulture from the other side. The only one that stands out is a man in the front, wearing a white shirt under a black vest. A prosthetic arm glints in the buzzing, hanging lamp that barely lights the warehouse.

"That is Ulysses Klaue," Stark explains. "The most notorious international gangster, weapons dealer, and killer alive today. He has expanded since his assassination and heist-work in Africa."

The man looks like he could be that old, grizzled uncle that drinks too much and embarrasses the family at Thanksgiving dinner. He stops an appropriate distance from Vulture's crew, his men fanning out behind him.

The scratchy audio begins to come in from Redwing's system. Wanda's knuckles are pale as they rest on the table, her black-painted fingernails curling in while she listens, works, meditates. There's a faint red pulse through the veins in her arms. When her chest rises with air, the audio sounds like a bad radio. When her breathe releases, the sound grows clearer.

I will never understand energy manipulation like this.

"How are you tonight, gentlemen?" Ulysses Klaue says. His voice is everything a grasping, conniving, coveting, Ebenezer Scrooge rasp ought to be. "I hear you have big game for me today, yes, big, big game."

"I am about to make you very dangerous," Toomes says. "And you're going to make me very rich."

"Happy Christmas," Klaue smiles like a snapping turtle.

"Why don't we do this the easy way," Toomes replies. "Money doesn't bite, but the microprocessors have a mean one. Why don't you show us a few million, and we'll show you our goods."

"I'm a bit insulted," Klaue's missing tooth makes him look like a nightmare. His eyes glint like he swallowed a devil. "But we'll play by your rules for now - this is, after all, your party."

He jerks his head to one of his men.

A grunt in denim trots forward with two black suitcases, followed by a second grunt with two more suitcases. They lay them down in a line before Toomes, opening the hatches.

Hundreds and hundreds of hundred-dollar-bills.

Steve suddenly looks at his phone, then shuts it again.

My eyes dart back to the screen. It's too late to spot which one of Vulture's men used his phone. If the undercover agent made his moves visible to me - there's no telling if I could stop myself from telling Vulture who it is. I am not myself to control.

Several of the men have their hands in their pockets. It could be one of Stark's labeled red shirts, or, it could be Davis or Parker or Schultz. All three of them have their hands in their pockets. They could have used a cell phone from there. It'd be difficult, but possible.

Toomes nods in approval. "Jackson, if you please."

Brice steps forward with a silver case of his own, laying it in front of Klaue, opening it up to reveal ten rows, ten columns, of small glass capsules no bigger than a vitamin pill. Inside those safety nets, of course, are the processors, so tiny they would appear like a speck of silver dust inside.

"Aren't they beautiful," Ulysses Klaue whispers like a revivalist discovering worship for the first time. "Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition."

"That's a good line," Wade Wilson looks like he wants to kick himself for not using it first.

"It's still a cliche," Stark corrects him. "He's better off with it so that you don't look like more of a douchebag than you already are. I think it counts as using it though, so, put a dollar in the jar, please."

Wade ignores him. "How are you doing over there, Wanita?"

Wanda clenches her eyes shut even more, ignoring him.

The exchange is made. Brice and Schultz each take two suitcases of money. Klaue hands his suitcase of microprocessors over to the mercenary beside him.

"Good doing business with you," he says sulturely.

"Before you go," Toomes says lightly. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

It is almost frightening watching the plastered smile on Klaue's face twitch, like a broken doll in a toy store. "And what's that?" he asks, pleasantly. His throat bobs with murder.

Toomes leans over to Parker. "You got any paper and pen, kid?"

"Oh, oh, yeah, sure," Parker tugs a pen out of his pocket. He hands it to Toomes quickly. "Uh, shoot. I don't have any paper."

Toomes grabs Parker's arm roughly, squeezes his wrist so that he opens his hand, and writes roughly on his palm. Then he man-handles Parker across the space, shoving his hand towards Klaue.

Parker's arm visibly shakes, his mouth pressed in a firm, pained line.

I wonder…

I glance over at Steve and Wilson, but neither of them have any reaction, except for the same idle curiosity they'd have for Vulture being rough with any one.

No protective, instinctually father-like attitudes radiating from them.

So, probably not Parker, then.

My money is on Davis. This chilled, relaxed routine is very clearly a _routine._ He reads like a fake.

Klaue reads the note on his palm quickly, brows furrowed.

"What the hell is this?" he asks darkly.

"Exactly as it says," Toomes says, shoving Parker away from him. "You can take my word for it, or not."

Parker shuffles back to join the crew, pressing his arm to his side.

"What the hell did they say?" Stark demands. "Get Redwing closer!"

"He can't, Stark," Steve exclaims.

"So? Can't Vision see?"

"Not without leaving the wall!"

"What the fuck is that?" Wade exclaims. "He would only pass notes like a schoolgirl if he knew we were there!" He looks at me, eyes narrowing. "Someone tipped them off. Fuck."

No one notices he is looking at me, they all look at the screens.

"How did they know?" Stark demands, slapping the table angrily. "What - did it - say?"

Steve looks at his phone again. "They know we're there."

"Is that from your guy on the inside?" I ask quickly. "Did he see what was written?"

"Why are you so FUCKING interested in our undercover operations, huh?" suddenly Wade Wilson flies at me, fists gathering my jacket and shoving me away from the monitors. "Why don't you mind your own goddamn business!"

Steve grabs Wilson's arms and yanks him backwards, Stark steps between us quickly and holds out a hand to either chest.

"How about the two of you quit screwing around like a pair of idiots?" Stark demands loudly. "We have a MISSION IN PROGRESS and maybe you two can put your dicks away for one second and concentrate on keeping our people safe and the mission on point? Can you handle that? Huh?"

"I could be down there, if you had called me before," I snap angrily. "I don't like sitting up here feeling useless! That's why I asked!"

"Are you sad you didn't get into MySpace's top eight best friends?" Wade snaps over Steve's shoulder. "Does it melt your little frostbite feelings?"

"They're leaving, the transaction is done," Banner's quiet tone interrupts the heated exchange. Steve shoves Wade back another pace, giving him a deadly glare before turning back to the monitors.

Stark points at a nearby chair. "Go sit with Wanda a minute and cool the hell off."

I do as he says.

"Welcome to the corner," Wanda says dryly when I sit down. Her voice, while relatively unaffected before, is now unmistakably Slavic.

I give her a disbelieving look. Accents can come and go with stress.

Steve and Stark watch with renewed interest as the two parties separate, walking out of the ware house on opposite sides. Instead of going back to the SUVs, Vulture's crew makes their way down to the waterfront…

Heading for a boat at the dock.

"What the hell?" Stark exclaims.

Ulysses Klaue and his crew walk out into the open docking station, also abandoning their vehicles.

We hear the unmistakable _chug chug chug_ of an approaching helicopter.

"Falcon says they've got air support coming in," Steve says urgently. "Listen everyone - it's - it's dangerous to change plans last minute. They know it even better than us since their earlier exchange point was compromised. Keep Redwing pointed at Vulture's crew."

The view from the cameras shift slightly, watching the shadows of Vulture's crew silhouetted by the harbor lights in the wide open warehouse exit.

"We can't lose the microprocessors," Banner says. "Tonight is our shot."

Steve and Wade exchange a look.

"Microprocessors or our undercover?" Wade asks. "We can try and handle both if their exits change, but, fuck, what if..."

"So it comes down to one life or the world?" Stark asks. He curses angrily and kicks a chair. "I hate this. I hate this."

"Are we the fucking Avengers or not?" Wade demands. "I should be there. Stark, suit up already. We'll snatch our man right up!"

"We know where Vulture is, as long as his crew is safe, our guy is still safe," Steve says, and it looks like he is being slowly stabbed in the chest to say it. "Vision, I want you to make sure they get back to their home base safely. If Klaue decides to double cross them from the air, it could harm our guy. We don't know why the hell Klaue has a chopper. It could be armed with missiles. At all costs, we cannot let Klaue go after that boat and steal his money back."

"Vision says he's following Vulture's crew," Stark says to the rest of us.

"Don't engage," Steve warns. "Hawkeye, Widow, come in. They're not enroute. They're skipping your route entirely. They're not using the street. Copy?"

"Time to take the processors," Stark says.

"B Team," Steve replies heavily, "Move in before that chopper lifts off."

There's a pause. Suddenly Steve wrenches his head to the side, pulling a small, penny-sized listening piece out from behind his ear. "DAMN IT," he exclaims.

Stark and Wade did the same things, pressing a hand suddenly to their heads as if someone hit them.

"Explosion," Steve reports, breathing hard. "Get Redwing out there! Wanda?"

Wanda is already blinking with surprise, fingers pulsing with red light. Redwing's view changes from the inside of the warehouse, looking out to the harbor towards the boat to the pavement streaming by.

The camera view opens to the dark blue sky, the black waters, the damp asphalt. Outside the warehouse looking at what is left of the helicopter.

It's now a blazing, throbbing fireball, flames shooting twenty feet high, the propellers still spinning in the molten heat, waves curling out of the open windows and doors of the cockpit.

"Thus perished Ulysses Klaue," Stark whispers in shock.

"And his entire crew," Steve adds.

"Oh, fuck," Wade sighs. "Now I'm craving barbecue."

"Did you see where the explosion came from?" Steve asks. "Anyone."

A pause.

"Lang says that the helicopter landed, the entire crew got in, and BOOM. It just went up," Stark repeats for the rest of us without in-ear. "Bomb was likely already on board."

"Vulture has remote bombs," I say. "This whole thing was a setup to eliminate yet another market rivalry. He did it with Vanchat, and he did it with Klaue. He's eliminating his competition. Maybe he's responsible for the Mac-Scorpion crew too."

"Do you think those were the real microprocessors in that case?" Steve asks.

"Not by a long shot," Stark moans. "We are still missing one hundred microprocessors."

"And Vulture is now a few million richer," I sigh. "Is it just me or was this whole thing just a complete mess to begin with?"

Wade glares at me. "If you don't like my house, you can leave." He leans over to Steve, whispers in a low tone. "If the microprocessors are still out there, does that mean our guy needs to stay out there longer, too? Please say no. In multiple languages if you must. I'll accept sign language."

"He needs to… stay," Steve whispers. "But I don't like it, I don't like leaving him…"

Stark shakes his head. "He shouldn't have to stay there any longer! I don't care what you do. Send in Falcon, Vision, Lang. Tip over the boat and pull him out."

Steve gives him a look. "You act like you know who he is."

"Maybe I have my guesses," Stark snaps. "And maybe I think it's time to quit playing this obnoxious, ridiculous UN-sanctioned game."

"You think we should forget the Accords and our pre-set parameters and do this just by going in, guns blazing?" Steve repeats. "Who are you, and what have you done with Tony Stark?"

"Still me," Stark exclaims. "Am I allowed to see the light or not?"

Wade brightens. "Falcon, Rhodes, and Vision all say they're in. Say the word and we'll Titanic this motherfucker and your guy will be out. He'll be out and he'll be home for good."

"I hate to be the asshole," Bruce chimes in, "But if we pull him now, we will never see those microprocessors again. I absolutely guarantee it. And that's future mass-murder on an apocalyptic scale. World domination, terrorism, a country obliterated - you name it. That blood is on our hands."

There's a horrible silence.

"This isn't recompense for Ultron, you know," Stark mutters.

"Oh it's, it's far worse than that, Tony," Bruce whispers. "It's worse."

"Okay," Steve says. "Then we let him go. Falcon, Vision, Rhodes, Lang, stand down. Join team A and come in."

For a moment, we just watch the massive, rolling flames pluming out of the helicopter. Lang's figure goes running by Redwing, suddenly shrinking down to nothing and disappearing from view. We know the others are in-air, joining the non-enhanced Avengers assigned to other strategic areas.

Wanda takes a deep breath, and the cameras wink out one, by one, by one.

I notice it has started raining, streams of water smudging the blinking darkness on the window pane. I feel shame rising in me like threatening vomit.

...

* * *

 **Getaway -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I watch the harbor recede into the distance.

It's easy to hide the fact I'm crying; everyone looks like they are crying. The wind is so cold and sharp on the water that it bites into our eyes, forces the saltwater out.

I look into the writing on my palm.

AVENGERS PRSNT

1 WALL, 1 TOWER.

USE ALT. EXIT

How did Toomes know?

 _How did the Vulture know they were there?_

Captain America was right. He was very, very right. There's someone in that Tower and there is someone feeding him information.

Tonight was supposed to be my way out, and it's ruined. All ruined.

I'm dead, I'm sure of it. They'll kill me like they killed the buyer with the creepy arm and the thick accent.

I recognized the remote in Jackson's hand when the helicopter landed. Saw the smirk on his face, knew it was going to blow up.

Saw Klaue's face felt into red pits of nothing before my very eyes.

Got into the boat like a robot, knowing that wasn't how it was supposed to go. They were going to arrest Vulture on the road - Avengers in position to apprehend us as we drove away. Toomes had a secondary escape route planned all along without telling anyone.

Aaron Davis gives me a look. "Y'know," he says slowly, "This means more jobs. More money."

"Really?" I ask, trying to sound hopeful. I scrub at my eyes with one fist.

"Yeah, man," he drawls. "We're saving those microprocessors for the big wigs."

"I thought Klaue WAS the biggest."

"Not by a long shot," Vulture chuckles. "You've got a lot to learn, Parker. But learn you will." He steps over Jackson's legs, kicking them out of the way behind him, grasping the railing on the edge of the boat.

He raises his voice to be heard over the _BBBRRRRVVVVTTT, BBRRRRVVVTTT_ of the motor. "You came through tonight," he says.

"I didn't do anything special."

"That's right," he says. "You didn't. That's the point. You did what you were told, no complaining, and you didn't react like a scared little kid when the bomb went off. That was good stewardship, get it? A lesser man would have made a stink about an unfair exchange. Betraying a customer. Jumped at the fire. Rushed us towards the Avenger's hidey hole."

I shake my head. "Why would I do any of that?"

"Why would you?" Toomes muses with a catty grin. "Good questions to ask. You didn't. That's the fucking point." He pulls something from his belt, hands it to me.

It's a gun.

It's a fairly ordinary gun, but outfitted with purple wires that glow on the barrel.

"Whoa," I breathe. "For me?"

"You earned it, son," Toomes replies. "It works just like a real gun, but easier, like you see in the space-cartoons. You just pull the hammer back, like this, hand on the trigger, and why don't you uh - why don't you just take aim here? Right across the water. Aim for the Avengers Tower if you want to."

I don't aim for the tower, but I do point it at the black expanse of water.

I pull the trigger.

There's a hard blow to my ears, making me flinch. Tears spring anew to my eyes, freshly streaming down. My ears ring, and if possible, I think my chest, arms, and neck are likely bloodshot. My veins feel as if they're wriggling around, trying to escape my skin. I should be wearing ear protection for this, right?

Now, all I can hear is the ringing, and my heart pounding too hard.

"Cool," I choke out. "So what's it, what's it do, exactly?"

"Well, it kills people," Toomes laughs. "Put this part back. That's your safety on this thing."

I do as he asks, clicking it into place. Then I put it into my jacket pocket.

"The retro-fit we gave you," Toomes says, "Little extra gift from Mason and I. This thing don't shoot bullets. That purple shit is Chitauri juice pressed out of that energy shit. The energy contained in the wires is compressed, hardened, and shoots out a black pellet that works just like a bullet. But the energy renews with light exposure, like a satellite dish. So you don't ever run out of ammunition."

"Wow," I breathe. "That's - wow." I try to look pleased. "Sort of like Star Wars."

"Take good care of her, and she'll take good care of you."

I can't hide the wideness of my eyes, the fear in my heart. But I nod. "Thank you, sir. I'll earn this. I will."

He slaps my shoulder. "You keep obeying orders like you did tonight, and you'll get solo missions soon enough." He turns and makes his way to the bow.

Jackson and Aaron begin to speak in low tones, in a conversation I am not privy to.

I look at the black water, and then into my palm again.

AVENGERS PRSNT

Avengers present? More like gone, I think. I'm stuck here for now. With the sudden change of plans, there wouldn't have been any rescue - couldn't have been. I understand that easily enough.

They have to consider the lives at stake if the microprocessors go missing, instead of the life of just one kid.

That doesn't stop me from feeling abandoned, though. More alone than ever.

I rest my arms on the side of the boat, laying my chin on them. Every so often a sprinkled wave of water sprays my face.

I watch the lights, homesick.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Review Replies**

Starnight5: Aw man, I can't believe you're working a night shift on Thanksgiving night. God bless you and your work. Seriously. I am sure you find the MJ character somewhat relatable, there are upcoming scenes going into more detail about her night shifts at the hospital.

LooneyLovegood1981: Ta da! The dealer wasn't Hydra! Were you surprised? :) Klaue was a deliciously evilly fun character to write. Thank you so much for your review and your compliments. I hope you had a wonderful holiday.

curry-llama: You are calling it like it is! Peter is being SO not smart right now, asking someone out while he's undercover... it's such a bad idea. I'm kind of excited you're waiting to watch the movie! Do you have Netflix in Australia? They just uploaded The Departed on Netflix in the US 2 months ago. There is a scene where Leo DiCaprio's character asks out his shrink and while it's an amazing scene you are just cringing at his bad timing!

Tightpants182: I am sorry this story is causing you anxiety but at the same time I'm delighted?! It's like making readers cry, we feel really badly about it but it's very validating! I had major anxiety while WRITING it lol, the tension was just such a slow cooking build up... (speaking of crock pot hot chocolate, which sounds AMAZING!) Raise a glass to Peter's awkwardness and feel free to blame me when you talk to your mom. I'm happy to help ;) ;)

* * *

 **NEXT TIME** : Natasha can't seem to find a breakthrough, but she can't keep up the pretense for much longer. Bucky's mind slowly deteriorates under the strain of faking both lives. The Vulture finally steps out of line.


	11. Emboldened

_Dear Readers,_

 _Hope you're having a marvelous week! I've been just shy of Hulk smashing, so I'm happy to be sneaking away to the fan fiction world for a bit. Join me, won't you?!_

 _Hugs,_

 _-Pip_

* * *

 **Warnings: somewhere between sexual references and public displays of affection. There's not a great way to describe making out with Mark Ruffalo. I can't label a chapter with "IT'S HOT, LIT, and A LITTLE BIT GREEN..."**

 **Oh wait, just did.**

 **Additionally, mild language, threats of violence.**

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN - Emboldened**

…

* * *

 **Kitchen Talks - Natasha Romanoff**

* * *

...

"Do you need any help?" Bruce asks shyly.

I give him a smirk. "With this small box in my arms?"

"I just thought, I'd, uh," Bruce slowly takes the box out of my hands and puts it on the counter of his apartment. "May I?"

"Be my guest," I sweep a hand at the box. I return to my mug of hot, hot coffee, sipping at the frothy edge and watching the lines of his mouth, his neck.

He pulls out a framed picture, holds it out at arms length, smiles. The Barton family photo from last Christmas. The only piece of sentimentality I cling to, the knowledge that my best friend and his family are thriving, well, and happy.

"Cute family," he muses quietly. "The kids are growing up fast."

"Maybe we should go back and visit them sometime," I say.

Bruce looks at me over his glasses, unsure at my hesitancy. "Sounds wonderful. Why wouldn't we?"

"As a couple."

"Oh, you mean, tell them we're… uh…"

"Yes."

"I'm surprised the Hawk doesn't already know."

"He has his suspicions. I won't confirm it." I put my coffee down, bracing my arms on the counter and hopping on, swinging my legs. Freely. Girlishly. "Not till you're ready."

"Someone will notice when we arrive at work at the same time every day," Bruce chuckles lightly.

"Or we don't," I suggest, "Just… for now. No carpooling. Not yet."

Bruce looks hurt. "Oh. Right. Because of the, uh…"

"Mission," I say firmly.

"Mission," he repeats, not meeting my eyes. "How long do you think this little flirtation has to go on?"

"Honestly? I can't end it soon enough," I look at the coffee as if it personally betrayed me. "I'm close. I think I'm close. There is something wrong." I look back at him. "I will find out what it is."

"Can I ask you a question, Nat? A hard one?"

"You can ask me anything, Bruce."

"Will you sleep with him? To find out what you need?"

"I've slept with men before to get what I needed. Does that bother you?"

"No, because," Bruce hesitates. "It was in the past."

"Yes, it was," I agree. I reach over and take his hand. It's bigger than mine, and warm. "But my job description did not change in the meantime. I am still a spy."

He nods. "I know."

"Will it hurt you?" I ask. "If I do?"

Bruce looks away. "The honest answer is yes."

I don't know how to answer him.

"I don't want to hurt you," I say.

"Okay, uh, uh, let me - let me rephrase that," he pulls his hand out of mine, turning fully towards me. He steps between my legs, setting a hand at my hip, the other fully encompassing my face. His palm is so warm - and despite not being sad, nor unhappy, I feel comforted. He leans me against the cupboards behind me, his chest pressed against mine. "It would hurt, yes," he says. "It would hurt me very much. But I would not be angry with you. I would not fault you for it. I would do my very best not - not to think about it. Not to be jealous of Barnes for having the privilege of being intimate with you. I would try to… put it away. Forget about it."

I surprise myself by letting my lip tremble. He is… so good. Truly good.

"Sad but not angry," I surmise.

"Yes."

"You wouldn't hold it against me."

"We all have jobs we don't like sometimes."

I rest an arm on each of his broad shoulders. "You are good."

"What do you mean?"

"You are a good person."

"So are you."

"I'm so-so," I respond, putting the tremble away. I force myself to smile. "Bruce, I won't sleep with him."

"You don't have to say that on my account…"

"No, I mean, I will not sleep with him. On MY account. I will go as far as I must to gain intel… if there's any intel to be had... but I choose to not sleep with him. I'd known that long ago. But I wanted to know what you thought. What you think is important to me."

I so rarely hug, but this time calls for it. I wrap my arms around his neck and tuck my chin over his shoulder, holding him close. "Something I am becoming used to is when you love someone, you try not to hurt them. Sometimes you fail. But sometimes you have a choice."

He breathes into my hair. "Nat, if the mission…"

"If the mission were to hurt us," I say firmly, pulling back, "Hurt what we have? The mission goes." I snap my fingers. "Just like that."

Bruce is overwhelmed. His eyes search mine, looking for lies. Finding none, he kisses me. Our lips move rhythmically together, intentionally slowly, savoring each electric sensation. Finding a relationship built on mutual respect was a dream that I never - never thought I would have. This is that dream, and I am tasting it.

My phone rings, buzzing incessantly on the counter next to my first unpacked box.

"Ignore it," I whisper, maneuvering my lips past the scruff of his chin, finding my way to his earlobe.

The phone buzzes again.

"It could be an emergency," Bruce whispers back, one hand pressed firmly into my back, the other sliding under my hip.

"Screw emergencies," I mutter, looking over his shoulder at the phone. I really, really don't like being interrupted like this. "It's… Barnes."

Bruce rests both hands on my hips. He gently presses his thumbs on my thighs, rubbing them back and forth in sympathetic comfort, not foreplay. "It's okay," he says slowly. "Call him back."

"Bruce, I can think of three… maybe five things I would prefer doing right now."

"Only five?" he teases, then sobers. "It's okay. Call him back, I won't be mad," he gives

me an understanding smile. "I am going to go take a shower and get ready for work. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You'll let the movers in? When they get here?"

"Yes, of course."

He gives me one last kiss - for encouragement, for luck, or for himself, I don't know, and his warmth leaves me as he disappears into the bathroom.

I didn't expect my first day of moving in to be so… heavy.

I call him back.

"Hey," Barnes says happily.

"Hey," I respond, equally warm.

"I've been trying to reach you. I was, uh…"

"Worried?" I infer, feeling prickly. I hate it when men are needlessly clingley.

"Well, I wouldn't be, ordinarily," Barnes says. "It's just we… we had plans for breakfast and…"

And I had stood him up.

"Oh," I say, with the overloaded enthusiasm of someone overworked and forgetful. I hadn't forgotten. I just didn't want to go. "I can't believe…" I groan, as if embarrassed. "I thought you said you wanted to get breakfast on Thursday."

"It is Thursday," he says.

A pause, for dramatic effect. "It's Wednesday."

"Check your calendar Romanoff," Barnes chuckles.

"I am rarely wrong," I say confidently. Then I wait.

"Well?"

"Today is one of those rare occasions. Barnes, I'm sorry. It… uh… appears to be Thursday. I'm sorry I worried you."

"It's all right. I'll see you at the Tower."

"Of course."

"Do you want to… train?"

I knew what he meant. Training and then making out. It's not rocket science.

"I have a… meeting with Deadpool that I can't miss. After?"

"Yes," he says. No hint of the charm, the humor. "Of course. I'll see you there."

"See you there."

He ends the call. Something about his tone had changed, and I didn't like it. It wasn't hostile. It wasn't sad, nor happy. It simply wasn't. No emotion at all, as if he's suddenly turned them off.

I stare at the phone, thinking, processing.

I don't even hear Bruce come back in. "Nat," he says.

I look up slowly. "Yeah."

"Everything okay?" he hooks a dark blue towel over one arm.

"Everything is fine."

Bruce gives a slight smile and a head shake, as if he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Remember one of the first things I ever yelled at you?" he asks.

"In words? Or roaring?" I smirk.

"Words," he replies patiently.

I tilt my head. "You asked me to stop lying to you."

He gives me that look again, the one I find so irresistible, looking at me from under his brows like I was a student evading a question of a stern professor. "Well?" he asks.

"I say everything is fine because I don't know how else to answer," I respond tiredly. He immediately drapes the towel over the back of the dining chair, walking back around the island to rejoin me at the counter.

"Talk to me."

"I'm not trying to lie," I explain, "Sometimes it's easier to fallback than it is to verbalize a working theory. One I don't have figured out yet."

"Then say that," Bruce says gently, resting his hands on my knees. "Even if it's… annoying, or scary, or unknown, or half-assed sentences… give me a try and I'll listen."

I take a deep breath. "Something is off with Barnes. Okay - I mean - more than usual. I can feel it. I just can't figure out what it is. The sooner I can the sooner I can break this off. I'm frustrated."

"I understand."

"I am good at this," I say. "You know I am."

"Yes."

"If I can trick the god of mischief into giving away his plans to use you on the helicarrier, why is it so hard to figure out an unfrozen-super-soldier?"

"When you put it like that…"

Something clicks. Not a lot of something, but it is… something.

"I know that look," Bruce says. "What are you thinking?"

"It's because I'm trying to figure out an unfrozen super soldier," I say, the theory tripping itself up in my brain, making it difficult to say. "I assumed he was telling the truth from the beginning because Steve did. Steve is one of my best friends, why shouldn't I trust him?"

"We both trust him?" Bruce isn't following. "Steve would never intentionally mislead you."

"Steve isn't at fault here. Steve trusts Barnes. Barnes told him his story - told the world his story. I was taking this at face value from the beginning. I haven't - I shouldn't, ever, ever, ever do this with a potential target."

I hop off the counter, pacing back and forth through the kitchen. "I need to strip away everything I learned from Steve. What's left? What is left? An enhanced target whose last known association with our friends was time spent as a hero in WWII and as a POW. Those are the facts. Everything else is hearsay." I throw my hands up in the air. "Just hearsay."

"Including his time spent frozen underground?"

"Especially that," I bite my thumb thoughtfully and keep pacing. "Something he said early on… it was a red flag to me. I even made a point of mentioning it to Wade Wilson. He had a surprisingly lack of curiosity about the Sokovia incident."

"So Steve may have told him about it?"

"He did. Partially. About Ultron. But not about the formulation of three entirely new Slavic countries. Counties that did not exist when he was an active soldier in Europe during the war. Do you see?"

Bruce nods.

"He had no questions, no nothing," I say quickly. "He only commented it was a rough area. Like he already knew about it." I sit heavily in the dining chair. "Like he already knew."

Bruce follows me over, kneeling in front of me so that I have to look at him. "Scientific theory is different," he says calmly. "So I can't promise I am being any help, but… when it comes to human nature… the type of mysteries you deal with every day… I believe there are no coincidences. Everything means something."

"The difference between Loki and Barnes," I say softly, "Is that there should be a huge, huge difference. Barnes should be easier. But he's not. This - essentially - tells me that I am dealing with something far bigger than I am giving it credit for. Even if this tells me nothing else, I know I cannot underestimate him."

I close my eyes, wondering if I can feel a headache coming on. "I've been too preoccupied with making sure he didn't underestimate me. The better someone knows their opponent, the faster they show their cards to play. I thought if I kept pushing him, he'd show his hand."

"You've done well on that front," Bruce says uncomfortably, "But if you truly believe you're dealing with something worse than Loki, just how much danger are you putting yourself in? What about Steve, Tony? Should they know?"

"I have nothing to tell them," I say. "No facts."

"I think Tony would listen."

"Then you talk to Tony. Please. Let me handle Steve. I'll talk to him after my trip."

"I'll do what I can to help, you know that."

"Thank you."

Bruce stands again, bending over and kissing the top of my head soundly, tugging his towel out from under my elbow.

The doorbell rings.

"My helper," I sigh.

"Do you still want to stay?" Bruce asks.

"Why are you even asking?" I push him towards the bathroom. "Go get a shower. When you come out, you'll be surprised at just how little boxes there are in your very, very nice home."

"You pack light?"

"Nothing that I couldn't carry in a backpack and run with it. So... yes."

Bruce smiles fondly. "Please tell me the movers brought more than a backpack."

"Yes," I say proudly. "Now that I've been primarily settled in New York, I've accumulated three boxes."

"Only three?" Bruce exclaims. "And you hired movers?"

I walk over and open the door.

Wade Wilson is standing outside with a box balanced on one arm, and two boxes on a red flyer wagon behind him. He purposefully scrawled TASHA STROGANOFF on each of them in red sharpie, but the R is backwards.

"I had to mug three kids at a lemonade stand to get this here," he says happily.

Bruce immediately walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Wade stares after him. "When you gotta go, you gotta go."

...

* * *

 **Migraines - Bucky Barnes**

* * *

...

"Why did you ignore my call?"

"I was on the other line," I reply. "It was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"I need to know you are with me, soldier."

"I am."

"Who were you on the phone with?" Alexander Pierce's voice sounds soft, interested. A colleague you might drink with on a weekend. But he is not - he is sharp. Dangerous. "Tell me."

"My...my…" I almost call her my girlfriend. But… "A woman I'm dating."

He chuckles. "Settling in is an important part of your cover."

"Yes, it is."

"The woman you are seeing," he says. "She is just another corpse to me if she distracts you from doing your job. Understand?"

I feel my heart rate increase. "Yes."

"You've been doing well there. The Avengers - they trust you?"

"Some of them."

"Not all of them?"

"They are suspicious by nature and not easily won over."

"But despite the hindrance you've still been helpful to my primary suppliers."

"Yes."

"Do you understand why it is so important to me that you keep the Vulture informed?"

"No."

"The Vulture has something I want, and he's improving what I want, to make it better than I want," he replies. "That's all you need to know. He's of value to me. Ergo, of value to you. Keep the Avengers in the dark."

"I will."

"You enjoy having the woman keeping you warm?"

The implication makes my throat tight, my ears hot. She's not just the woman. She's Natasha Romanoff. She's beautiful, she's wicked smart, and altogether too incredibly gifted to be truly interested in me. But I want the delusion for as long as possible.

"Yes, I do," I respond tightly.

"Good, if you like having her around… don't falter in your charade. You know with one trigger word; I can make you forget you ever liked her and have you snap her neck in seconds."

"Yes, I understand," I say firmly. "I understand very much."

He's threatening her. He's threatening Nat.

He's threatening them all.

He doesn't just want to play a role and listen. He's say those words… someday… and ask me to kill them all. And I'll try, but I'll likely die trying.

I can't have it happen…

I can't…

I can't do it.

"Call Vulture," Pierce commands. "I think Avengers are getting their hands into his operation."

"I know they are."

"And you haven't found who it is yet?"

"No, but I'm trying. They have an agent undercover. I've been trying to get my hands on the intel but Rogers and Wilson run it and won't let anyone else in. I feel I could do more if I knew more about the crew, but I can't exactly meet up with Vulture for a long survey. Maybe if you send me more data…"

"Who do you think you work for, James?" Pierce says slowly. I hate it when he uses my first name, like I am the son who is disappointing him… using his credit card, borrowing his car.

"I work for you," I say quickly. "I have not forgotten. I am asking for help, sir. My skill set is to go in and kill everyone. Being the… people person and gathering their files is not something I have access to unless I blow my cover."

"Oh, calm down, no one is blowing anyone's cover," Pierce sounds miffed. "I will kindly suggest to the Vulture that he needs to take a little time out of his busy day and get you some data. Happy?"

"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"You'd better not," Pierce answers. "Or some tragic accident will befall that beautiful lady you are seeing. She's good, but my men are better. We'd leave her left foot somewhere for you to trip over."

He ends the call.

I bend down over the grass and try not to vomit.  
I'm not sick - I'm resisting.

This is what happens when I do.

The more I try to push them away… the more they echo. From Russian, to English, back again to Russian.

The English finally repeating itself over and over, hitting the walls of my brain and bouncing off, clamoring in a migraine I've never been able to shake.

A migraine every goddamn day.

"Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak…"

"Stop," I say out loud. "Stop."

My mind quiets, and I straighten to my full height.

I'll find a way to do both.

I have to.

...

* * *

 **Je Déteste le Vautour - Tony Stark**

* * *

...

"Didn't I tell you?" Pepper asks, folding a napkin over her lap and giving me a pleasantly smug expression. "Getting out of the tower was the better option."

I like the way her engagement ring glints in the morning light slanting in from the cafe windows.

"Yes, Miss Potts," I say. "It was a much better idea, remind me to let you have all the good ideas from now on." I peruse the menu.

"Hi there, can I take your order?" asks the waitress.

I read her name tag. "Well, Abigail, yes you can, thank you."

"The fruit and pita plate for me, thank you." Pepper smiles and hands her the menu.

"I'll uh - I'll have the le agriculteur dejeuner?" I say. Pepper laughs outright at my pronunciation. "Hold the, uh, sausage links."

"Would you like to substitute bacon or ham slices?"

"Actually, if at all possible, can I sub uh - some the extra fruit lying around from that pita plate thing? A few orange slices? Maybe grapefruit. I will willingly take an apple core if that's what's left."

Pepper keeps laughing.

"On second thought," I say, "I apologize. I see there's a fruit bowl side here. I'll save you the trouble and I'll just order that."

Abigail blinks, suddenly recognizing me. "Ha, ha, oh - yes - of course - Mr. Stark. Will um, will that be all for you both this morning?"

"Coffee, black, for both," Pepper says. "Someone forgot to have their eighth cup this morning."

Abigail giggles. "Coming right up." She flips the orderbook shut and heads back to the kitchen.

"What the hell is a fruit and PITA plate?" I ask.

"Subbing meat for fruit?" Pepper exclaims, nearly at the same time. "Leave to us to order the only - only things on the menu that aren't French in any way."

"I'm watching my heart health," I respond. "Rumor is, I have one."

"Hello, Anthony."

I glance up as a shadow moves across our table.

Adrian Toomes is standing beside our table, wearing dark trousers, an aviator jacket, and a self-important smile.

For a moment I don't say anything.

There are very few things that surprise me… this is one of them.

"Hi," Pepper says uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, can we help you?"

"My mother would call me Anthony sometimes," I say stiffly, cutting off any potential reply to Pepper.

"What'd your dad like to call you?" Toomes replies evenly. "A disappointment?"

"Excuse me?" Pepper exclaims.

"Where are the real microprocessors, Toomes?" I cut right to the chase.

"I heard they disappeared in a fiery accident," Toomes shrugs. "Only rumor, of course."

"Tony, what is this," Pepper says, her voice laced with the edge of fear.

I hold up a hand. "Toomes, we both know that you wouldn't send up your prized possession to be burned up. That's just not you."

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm just sick and tired of having your circus all over my ass. If you don't cool the pressure on me, I'll find other ways to pressure you."

"Tony," Pepper whispers.

I look around the restaurant. "Listen, Toomes, I hate to make a scene here, but I will if I have to. I've got point three seconds to unfold a Mark L appendage that, could, unfortunately, hit you right in the face if you keep standing so close."

Toomes rolls his eyes. "So it comes down to playground threats, huh?" He looks over at Pepper, eyes roaming up and down. Her mouth curls in disgust.

"Don't you look at her," I spit out. "Don't. Don't. Walk away. Now."

"I myself have a pair of wings getting - rusty," Toomes says. "If I call them in, they come right through that skylight. Kill - I dunno, how many people, from the falling sheets of glass and ceiling - they're sharp like knives," he smiles again at Pepper, "You never know where one of the feathers might end up."

I stand up. "It's time for you to go."

Toomes reaches over and straightens the lapel of my jacket. My hands curl into fists but I force myself not to react.

"Nice seeing you, as always, Iron-Man," he says, turning and walking through the tables. I watch his jacket disappear out the front door and into the street.

I sit heavily back at the table, looking at Pepper.

She looks afraid, confused. She reaches forward and curls her beautiful hand around my arm. The ring sparkles. "Tony," she says, "Talk to me."

"I'm afraid I've suddenly lost my appetite, future-Mrs.-Stark," I say briskly.

"Then we leave," she says firmly. "It's okay. I don't mind."

"You," I point at her. "You need to be… debriefed."

"Oh," she says calmly. "I see. So that was someone…"

"Someone I'd like to put behind bars, yeah. Subject of an open SHIELD investigation that we have our hands in because it's taking them too damn long to do anything remotely helpful. We're running our own op to… well, I guess I'll need to start from the beginning. He's… he's very dangerous, Pepper."

"They're all dangerous," she sighs.

"He's in the top ten. More subtle about it, too, which makes him worse."

Abigail approaches with two plates and sets them down. "Coffee will be up in a moment," she says cheerfully. "Enjoy your…"

"On second thought, Abigail," I say, turning towards her. "Hate to do this to you, but I'm going to need three things. First, hold the coffee. Second, I need to-go boxes. We'll need to take our breakfast on the run. Thirdly, the check. Again, I apologize. Work came up."

Abigail knows my work is usually saving the world from aliens or robots. She gives a worried look out the front window, and then back at me. "Of course, Mr. Stark," she says. "Don't you apologize. It's completely fine. Let me go get that for you, I'll be right back."

Pepper gives my arm a squeeze, takes a sip of ice water. "Breakfast on the rooftop?"

"Yeah," I say shortly. "That way - you and I can talk. No interruptions. No… surprise third parties. We'll have a nice breakfast in the sun and look down at New York and pretend it's a date."

"But you'll be telling me about the current operations."

"You bet your blond curls I will."

"Strawberry blond," she corrects.

"Come again?"

"My hair. It's strawberry blond right now."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means it's… blondish red."

"There is nothing about your hair that looks remotely pink."

"It's not pink."

"Blond and red mixed together makes pink. I know art."

Abigail returns with the boxes and check. The final bill is fifty-three. I feel badly for anyone working in the service industry for the long hours and putting up with people like me. I also feel recklessly empathetic and fucking pissed off that Toomes had the audacity to show his face here. And damn it, I'm rich.

I put three hundred dollars in the book, and write on the receipt.

 _YES, the 247 in change is the tip for our waitress._

 _Thank you Abigail_

 _Excellent service_

 _\- Tony Stark_

...

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Review Replies**

Starnight5: Yeah Bucky has a sort of complex response system, he's fighting off the Winter Soldier control a lot, and sometimes he gets exhausted or angry and his defenses slip, and the Winter Soldier creeps back in. Sometimes he's literally holding both personalities in his head at the same time and they're struggling to see who is dominant. It's definitely a difficult balance to write. And you'll definitely get to see Peter use his gun in the next chapter!

LooneyLovegood1981: Aw thank you I'm glad you loved that line :) Seemed like something Bruce would say! He's such a warm character. I am glad you had a good weekend anyway! And also I'm totally jealous you were in France?! That's super amazing. Was it for vacation or work or school or something?

curry-llama: Yeah unfortunately being a cancer survivor left me with some reaaal fun PTSD, so I can write a lot of anxiety and panic from the experience. While I don't enjoy having them I do appreciate what little I can when it comes to writing them out, and I feel I can portray it honestly for the characters. Something I appreciated about Iron Man 3 was how Tony was sometimes triggered by colors or shapes, which I find very true to life. For a long time there was a particular shade of pink that made me lightheaded and feel a need to vomit. :P Luckily I was able to recover from that one, since I love the color pink, haha. XD

Tightpants182: YES, Wade absolutely would have known Bucky was the leak if he had actually heard what he was saying. I reread my paragraph over and over after posting and realized I didn't make it entirely clear that Wade said he was eavesdropping only to freak Bucky out, I didn't make it entirely clear that Wade didn't hear anything from before that. Wade didn't actually hear what he said, he popped within hearing range just a little too late. He only heard the part about the ice cream. If he had heard the bit about the wall and having a place 'with a view', Bucky's head probably would have been shoved through a wall right then and there :) He suspects Bucky is sort of off, anyway, but still has nothing but his own suspicions and no proof to use. Good catch!

* * *

 **NEXT TIME** : Peter and MJ try to go out on a date, but it is interrupted by Peter's double life. That double life bleeds over into his resolve to keep his hands clean, and this time, he's the one pulling the trigger...


	12. The Strangest Reveals

_Dear Readers,_

Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews! I put my personal replies at the end. I truly hope you enjoy this chapter and I'm sorry it took so long to post! Also, has anyone seen the new Avengers: Endgame trailer? You should DEFINITELY let me know what you think in your review.

 _-Pip_

* * *

 **Warnings: more public displays of affection, the fluff you've all been waiting for.**

 **More dire warnings: Threats of violence, and then acting on threats of violence, also language.**

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER** **TWELVE - The Strangest Reveals**

…

* * *

 **Sugarbear? -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I pace the garage floor, back and forth, back and forth. I have a gun tucked in my jeans and a panic attack lacing its way through my nervous system.

"You want to meet in-person again?" I repeat. "The only way I'm doing that is on a helicarrier headed for space! Er, something!"

"We have some handy-dandy hardware we want to pass along for the next…"

"Can't I confirm this with Captain America?"

"What?" Wade responds. "Don't you trust me, Petey?"

"I trust Captain America!" I respond. "Please? Can I talk to him?"

"Calm down, he's at the Agent Parson's funeral. He can't chat now. It's my shift."

"Are you TRYING to get me killed? First with the micro-sale and now you want to give me - what? Earpieces again? No thank you!"

"Hey, for the record, Potsticker, I wanted to come get you," Wade responds, his tone also getting pissed off. "I was suited up and ready to slice down every mother fucker in that place to come get you but the team made a different call. Okay? I'm not the bad guy just because I have a good sense of humor and a face with low-budget prosthetics."

"It doesn't matter who made that call," I say, the hurt still lingering. I shove it aside. "Cap was right. There's someone on the inside. Vulture wrote on my hand that the Avengers were present, noted the locations, and executed a secondary exit plan that no one knew about…"

"Yeah, yeah… we found that out when the big boom ha..."

"I'm just saying he knew where you were hiding with less than 6 hours of advance notice," I say, "Someone got that intel to him and they did it from your team."

"I know, I know," Wade responds frustratingly. "Don't you think I'm working on that? Huh? I want you out of that pit that we put you in, Tiny Tot. What if we make those plans, _those_ get leaked, and you're outed before we CAN get you? Think about that? Maybe if I can find the mole-bastard before we execute Operation Spider-Trap then you'll be in the clear!"

"I have an idea."

"Oh, by all means, please share with the class."

"Put three feasible jobs together and share with three different groups of people. Maybe tell one group that you're installing a super-secret-camera in Vulture's apartment. Tell the other group that you have eyes and ears on Mason's hidey-hole where he does all the designing. Tell another group that you're pulling surveillance completely. We'll see which one comes out on my end. We can narrow the field if you just _work_ with me."

"It's not a bad idea, Parker, but you have to understand, I've got over three hundred people I'm working with here. Myself and the rest of the famous Name-Brands are just the cherries on top of a very attractive and lucrative cupcake tower. But we got hundreds of others. Technicians, administrative, UN specialists, fucking Agents of Shield popping in and out like zits, enhanced trainees, interns, ground control, guards…"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I interrupt. "Will you just at least start with the big ones and work your way down?"

"I'm already _doing_ this shit, Parker. And it _did_ come out your end. That's why the sale went south. "

"Find out who it is," I say firmly. "Find _who_ it is otherwise - otherwise…"

"Or what, Tinker Toys? What are you going to do?"

"I'm getting on a plane and disappearing."

"You can't disappear from a plane. Unless you were one of the unlucky ones sitting next to Nicholas Cage and the Good Lord takes you home."

"But…"

"Tickets and passports are traceable."

"Fine," I say shortly. "I'll find some other way. But I'll be gone. I will be gone."

"I know you're all pissed off we couldn't Bernard and Bianca you out of this like we planned."

"I'm not mad."

"Yes, you are, quit bullshitting me. Because the Peter Parker I know does _not_ run away, even when it is hard. That's just the angry part yapping."

"I am not mad," I say slowly. "I'm _terrified._ This'll kill me. I just feel it. If I don't get out soon I _will not make it."_

"Listen to me, sugar-bear," Wade responds carefully, "You will make it. You're not going to die. If the choice comes between you dying and Spider-Man making a re-appearance, then fuck it, Spider-Man is back on the table."

"You're serious?"

"As serious as the taliban at a headscarf sale."

"For crying out loud! You - you can't JOKE about something like that…"

"Too far? I'll try again. How about this; as serious as a cancer patient at a headscarf sale. Better?"

"Mr. Wilson," I say with every ounce of patience I have. "Please…"

"Mr. PARKER, please! You are already enhanced. You're strong, and a hero, to boot. Got it? If you are truly in crises, and you might not come out, then you fucking fight. Spider-Man could take Vulture and his whole crew down, easy! Why can't Peter Parker? Don't you forget those red-and-blue-spandex powers, okay? Spider-Man is a card you can still play. He ain't dead. And you won't be either."

I hesitate.

"Captain fucking America is Lawful Good. Sacrificing one life to save millions is not only something he believes in, but made the difficult choice to do it _himself._ He would never ask someone to do something he hasn't already done, or would do, himself. That's sort of a problem when you're noble as shit."

"So…?"

"So I had an opportunity once to kill Hitler. And I didn't."

"Wait… WHAT? How?"

"Time travel. Long story. Different studio. Anyway, I had the opportunity, and I couldn't fucking do it. Why? Because he was an innocent baby. He wasn't wearing that fucking mustache yet. Or a swastika. Or had a rap sheet numbering murder by the thousands. He was a week old at most, and fucking cute and chubby and doing the same old shit cute babies do. I couldn't do it even though… well, I don't need to tell you what happened in wartime. Cap's got that covered if you need the personal horror stories."

"I don't know…"

"If it comes down to saving you or the microprocessors," Wade says, "I'll save your ass if it's the last thing I do. Though it probably wouldn't be the last thing I do, because I have a tendency to bounce back." There's a pause. "Look, I gotta go. Canada is calling."

The call ends.

I blink. I'm not entirely sure where that conversation was supposed to go, but it was clearly not following any rules.

I punch in the number I know by heart - my pounding, panicking heart.

"Hey, it's me," I say.

"Hey Peter."

"Hey."

"You okay?"

I don't address the question. "You want to get that coffee I mentioned?"

"Yeah," MJ sounds tired, grateful. "I'm actually on your side of the river today."

She probably thinks I'm still primarily in Queens.

"Anywhere near…. Birch Coffee?" I ask. "Or the Mill?"

"Both."

"Let's do Birch. It's less...conspicuous."

"Why, you hiding or something, Peter?"

"Yes," I respond in a joking manner. "Aren't you? Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Shhhhhhhh," she says quietly. "School can suck a dick. I'll see you there in about a half hour."

...

* * *

 **Coffee Date -** _ **Michelle Jones**_

* * *

...

Peter is already there when I arrive. He claimed the stools at a small counter beneath the front window for us. I can't shake the feeling he chose that spot so that he could watch the street. Either he's delusional, sick with paranoia, or he's big, big trouble.

I think it's the trouble.

"Hey," I say, dumping my bag on the counter and sliding onto the stool.

"Hey," he replies, smiling at me. "How's uh… how's it going?"

"I was up until four a.m. this morning studying for a test. Took the test at 8. I get the results next week."

"You must be… really tired."

"Tired is an understatement."

"Let me get you a coffee. What do you like?"

"Just a cappuccino, thanks."

"Great," he says eagerly, hopping off the stool and trotting to the counter. I can tell he feels awkward waiting in line, keeps glancing back at the door, windows. Orders the coffee and waits with a twitchy, impatient dance at the counter. Finally he brings two small cups back, each hand steaming.

"You seem on edge?" I ask.

"Do I?" he says. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," I roll my eyes. "It's weird when people apologize for everything."

"Okay, so, I'm on edge," he shrugs his shoulders. "Usually."

"You're like one of those little nervous terriers."

"Oh no," Peter laughs. "No, no, please don't compare me to one of those. Can't I be… like… a bigger dog?"

"Labradoodle," I respond, deadpan.

He snorts into his coffee. "Oh boy. Well if I'm a labradoodle then you're a…" He looks at my hair. It is not behaving today. The curls are more than curls, they are their own frizzy ecosystem responding to global warming.

"Don't say poodle," I say. "I'll revoke your friend card."

"I'd hate to do that." He glances out the window, sharply, and then relaxes. "Staying up late like that… for these tests - must be hard."

"Not much harder than the tests in high school, to be honest. It just has actual consequences instead of disappointed parents."

"Like someone's life?"

"Something like that," I toy with the curved handle of the cup. "I can't fail these things. Not if I'm going to be a good nurse."

"That's a lot of pressure." Peter says emphatically. "But you'll do great. I know you will."

"You're always so confident in other people but never yourself."

"I'm confident," he says loftily.

"Yeah bullshit," I take another sip. "Tell me something about your job."

"Not confident in that," he replies in the same, lofty tone, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Mhm."

"I'm confident about… other things," Peter says, becoming very interested in the disintegrating foam pattern in his coffee.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"How I feel… about you," Peter finally looks at me, holding my gaze.

I feel both surprised and not surprised. I could tell this was something… _maybe_ something, but not sure how much of something was something…

"I see," I respond shortly.

"Oh," Peter mistakes my tone. "Are you… I'm sorry. You're probably dating someone else, huh? OR… you know… totally happy and capable of enjoying being single which is totally fine and I fully support that because you're independent and cool… and… and I just made it awkward. I'm sorry. Let's, uh, go back, way way back, to the friends thing… comparing ourselves to dogs. That was fun."

"Peter, Peter, stop," I reach over and put my hand on his. "It's okay."

He looks down at my hand, and looks likewise surprised. Delighted, even.

"If you keep backtracking you're going to give me whiplash," I chide. "If you are confident about that, then be confident. Do you like me, or what?"

"Yes," he says shyly. "Is that okay?"

"It's okay," I respond. "Um… yeah. More than okay." I pull my hand back quickly. "I've liked you… for awhile."

"You mean like… when we were at school?" He's astonished.

 _Yes, every day,_ I want to say.

"You never really noticed me," I shrug instead.

"I didn't think _anyone_ noticed me, ever."

"I did," I say carefully, sipping my coffee. "I always did."

"That's because you're highly observant and not obsessive," he quotes me with a grin.

"True. And with vastly superior intelligence," I add.

"I concede," Peter laughs. He looks like he hasn't laughed like this for a long time. "MJ," he says, "I like you a lot. I'm not in a good place, _right this minute…_ to… ask you out officially. And. And. You know. Like…"

"Change your facebook relationship status?"

"I'm not on facebook…"

"Me, either."

"But if I was."

"You wouldn't be able to change it right now."

"Yeah."

"Do you have to go, like, break up with someone?" I ask calmly.

"Nothing like that," Peter takes a deep breath. "You know about the prison thing. And the panic attacks. I need to… change some things about my life if I'm going to be any… good to you. Does that make sense? I'm not trying to be frustrating."

"It sounds like long-term projects."

"Maybe, but if it is, I'll let you know," Peter says, sadly. "Is that okay?"

"That's okay," I push my half-empty cup down the counter. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Oh," he looks crushed. "Are you - are you leaving?"

"No," I turn my body towards him and push an elbow up onto the counter. "I just figured you might try and kiss me at this point and I'd make things easier for you… if you did."

"Uh huh," he nods his head up and down.

"Well?"

"Can I?" he asks.

"So polite," I chuckle. "Yes, you can."

He reaches one pale hand up and tucks wayward curls behind my ear, first. I feel an excited tremble run through my stomach.

Things rarely excite me… not much, anyway, that can't be found in the pages of a book. I'm too logical and expectant to be surprised, and sometimes this robs me of joy. I take things too literally, too seriously.

The only jokes and sarcasm I understand is my own, after all.

His lips brush mine, just barely. Tentative and shy.

I find it endearing that he is so careful, as if he is worried he'll break me. I'm not easily broken. _I'm Michelle fucking Jones._

I try to make it a little easier, leaning closer, parting my lips slightly and sharing a warm breath. We both smell like cappuccinos, and our noses smoosh together.

A phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls back as if someone electrocuted him.

"What?" I ask.

He laughs, but it's not a true laugh. He's masking something. "Sorry it - startled me."

"Startled me too. But…"

"I'm sorry, I think it's work," he pulls the phone quickly out of his pocket. "I have to take it. Hold on a moment."

I watch the change in his body language like a hawk. Or a nurse.

Rigid shoulders, short of breath. His eyes wide with… terror?

He begins to perspire, almost instantly. Jesus.

"Hey," he answers. I watch his eyes dart quickly to the window.

"No, no, I'm not home," he says shortly, "But I can be there in 10 minutes or so!"

If possible, his already pasty-white face becomes paler.

"No, no, wait," he says. "Let me meet you _there."_

Another pause.

"What do you mean you pinged my location?" he asks. "What the hell for? I'm just getting a coffee."

I feel my heart beginning to pound, too.

"Look," Peter tries to rein in the emotions and speak clearly. "I'll start heading your way _right now._ Meet you halfway. Five minutes."

The voice on the other side of the phone rises. I can hear the tinny feedback of someone yelling and, while I can't pick up every word, it sounds as if they are cursing him out. A LOT.

"Fine," he says, his voice giving out raspily. "Oh, you're already on 23rd. Got it. I'll be out front. Thanks for going out of your way. I appreciate it."

 _The hell?_

He hangs up the phone and looks at me, his face unreadable.

"What the actual fuck, Peter?" I ask. "Is there someone _following you?"_

"I guess so," he says shortly. "Turns out my coworkers are a little obsessive."

"That's bullshit," I respond.

"Listen," Peter startles me again by reaching forward and placing his trembling hands around each arm. "I'm going to ask you to do some things that won't make any sense, but I wouldn't ask you to do them if I didn't think it would be… be…"

"Are you trying to say _dangerous?"_ I ask briskly.

"Yes," he admits quietly. He looks around the coffee shop. Noting the bookshelves, the windows, the machinery behind the glass walls where they bag their own coffee grounds. "Go over to that corner," he says quietly. "Away from the doors and windows. Read one of your textbooks." He hands me my half-finished coffee. "Take that with you. Act like you've been here alone. Don't react to anything you might see, or hear, or…"

"Peter, you are truly freaking me out," I reply. "If you are in trouble. I can help. We can call the police."

"Don't, don't, don't," Peter shakes his head. "It's not that kind of trouble."

This is confusing. "Oh, it's not, huh?"

"Michelle," he says urgently, not using my nickname. "Will you do it? Please?"

"Yes," I say slowly, fighting every instinct to stomp my foot and ask - no, DEMAND answers. This is ridiculous. I didn't sign up for a fucking soap opera.

I just… signed up for him. I thought.

"Wait here for twenty minutes before you go home," Peter says. "Don't wait any less than that… and… don't wait till it gets dark, either. Please. _Please."_

"Okay," I say simply, releasing the control that I usually have - need - in weird situations. "But Peter… I won't let this go, you understand that? We have to talk about what is happening right now. This isn't okay."

"I know it's not okay." He looks towards the window. I notice gooseflesh erupt on his arms, the back of his neck. He looks like bubble wrap.

"Jesus, Peter," I whisper. "What's happening to you?"

"Go," he says, his voice hard. "Now."

I am not accustomed to letting boys bully me. Especially smart-ass white boys telling me what to do. But this is Peter. My friend. My old classmate. As miffed as I am right now, I trust him intrinsically. Even if he doesn't deserve it.

But his tone is not bullying, nor bossy. It's like that familiar tone a parent uses when they spot their little kid about to cross a busy intersection without looking.

It _does_ mean danger.

I am determined to figure out what the hell this is.

I had… suspicions in high school. Suspicions about the sorts of things he did.

Now, those suspicions come flooding back. I wonder if I should have given them more credence. Why else had he been at the Avengers Tower, anyway?

"Be careful," I whisper. I take my bag and coffee and walk to the back, sitting at the last table. I watch Peter put his coffee in the bus bin and walk with a stiff jolt outside.

If I didn't know any better, I'd almost think he was… packing. Like he had a gun… or maybe a very oddly shaped wallet… tucked into the back of his jeans.

 _Holy shit. He IS packing. That's a gun._

I watch his head until it is gone from view at the window. I hear the rumbling of an old car, and spy just the very top of a pickup truck on the street. Peter's head bobs inside the cab, and then the engine chugs away.

My hands are shaking, but I do as he asked. I open my textbook and pretend to read for twenty minutes, my eyes skirting the window and doors like a wild thing, afraid of something bigger that will pounce.

...

* * *

 **CIA -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I still imagine MJ's warmth on my lips as I hop into the truck.

"What the actual hell do you think this is? A taxi service?" Jackson exclaims when I get in. He gives me a friendly shove in the shoulder. "You know if you keep this up the boss is gonna question your commitment."

"I can't be expected to just sit in that damn garage 24 hours a day until I'm needed," I say angrily. "At some point I have to leave and buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee so I don't die."

"I'm just giving you a hard time, asshole," Jackson responds. "Don't worry, it's just a quick errand. I'll have you back to your super secret date."

I feel the blood drain from my face. "Yeah, my super secret date with me, myself, and I, and really second-rate coffee. The closest thing I've gotten to a date is when Siri responds to my questions at the Apple store."

Jackson laughs.

"So…" I sigh. "What are we doing today?"

"We had a low-level criminal make off with one of our armored trucks."

"We had an armored truck?"

"Oh, we still do. We just got it back."

"What happened to the guy who took it?"

Jackson grins wickedly. "You're going to happen to the guy that took it."

I feel my gut drop with dread.

"I'm not in the mood to commit my first murder, okay?" I sigh. "My first try didn't go very well and I went to prison because I sucked at it, remember? Plus its broad daylight!"

Jackson shrugs. "You can make someone hurt without killing them."

"So what do we need from him?" I ask. "Money?"

"Naw, nothing. Just hurt him and remind him who runs this neighborhood." Jackson turns up the music. "Remember, I got rules."

I had forgotten. A few weeks ago I was afraid to speak to him, grateful for the loud rap music he'd play so that I wouldn't have to. But here I am, chatting away with him like its second nature. Like I'm not still completely terrified.

I hope MJ is okay. I hope she still speaks to me after this.

I'd deserve it if she didn't.

I don't deserve someone like her at all.

Does… does that count as my first kiss? Our lips did touch, after all. But not much.

"Hey, if you use that new toy of course," Jackson says, "I got firecrackers I'm gonna set off. Give you a little noise cover. You hear those, you probably got thirty seconds or so. Pop him one or two times if you have the stomach for it and then we go."

"Fireworks? Great," I say sarcastically. "I've always liked the Fourth of July."

Jackson pulls up to the front steps of a tiny, white clapboard house built on a cement block with old, old windows. There's cardboard and blankets against the glass, huge jungle-weeds overgrowing the yard the size of a matchbox.

I hop out of the car, my heart pounding, racing up the steps of the leaning porch and kicking at the door. It swings in with only one blow, the hinges bent, the doorknob rusted it over.

The interior smells like urine and cigarette smoke, dark with shadows and littered with trash.

There's a man sleeping on the brown couch inside, so thickly encased in the cigarette smell, newspapers laying haphazardly on him, an open bottle of liquor on the floor beside him, his fingers still curled sleepily around the bottleneck.

He lets out a partial snore, blearily opens his eyes, and sees me standing at the foot of the couch.

My gun is pointed at his chest. Safety on.

"Aw what the HELL," he exclaims in realization and terror. "Jesus Christ, don't shoot…"

He starts to turn over, but I bend down quickly and press a hand down on his chest. He's shocked at how much pressure there is, how much I am able to hold him down with only one hand.

His free hand grasps the bottleneck, and he completely lays it out into the side of my head. It shatters out of his hand, and while glass and liquor erupt in my hair, eyes, ear - it's even worse for him, falling down like amber and crystallized rain. He screams and tries to cover his face for protection.

"Shit!" I exclaim, shaking my head. I smell like a bar now, and I can see the twinkle of glass out of the corner of my eye stuck in my hair, my cheek. It doesn't hurt, yet - whether from adrenaline or my own powers, I have no idea.

"I ain't got money, don't kill me, please!" he cries instead, struggling against my strengthened hand pushing at his sternum. If I push harder, I'll begin to crack his bones.

I have to be the puppet. Make it work.

"You stole an armored truck from Vulture," I accuse. "You realize who the hell you're dealing with, right?"

"I do now, I do now!" he sobs. "I gave it back, though! I gave it back!"

"The hell you did! We took it back!" I push the gun barrel against his temple.

"I'll give you money!" he swears loudly. "All of it! Just don't let him give me up to the CIA. Don't let him give 'em my name! I'd die in prison, I swear!"

"Why would he give you to the CIA?" I ask confusedly. "We don't work with them."

"Ignore what I said!" he screams. "I'm drunk! I'm high! I don't know what I'm saying!"

"If it wasn't important, you wouldn't be trying to back-peddle!"

The fireworks start going off outside, the cracks and pops setting my teeth on edge.

"Oh, Jesus, that's Jackson Brice out there… his fireworks… shit!" the man struggles drunkenly, waving his arms. "Please don't kill me!"

"I won't kill you if you tell me what you said!" I shout into his face. "WHAT ABOUT THE CIA?"

"I don't remember!"

"Tell me, or I shoot you."

"I didn't say anything about the CIA!"

 _Please forgive me._

I take off the safety, press the gun to space of his leg above the knee.

I squeeze the trigger.

The force of the blow kicks my hand a little, sprays generous sheets of blood up into my face and arms. The couch nearly silenced the pop, but the fireworks took care of the rest. I stumble back, away from the man I just shot.

 _The man I just shot._

The man screams horrifically, mouth gurgling with pain as he lunges for his leg, pushing his hands against the bleeding wound and rocking in a fetal position on the couch.

"Tell me what you said about the CIA," I repeat over his screams. "I'll I shoot the other knee."

"It's - it's - Vulture is a protected informant for the CIA," the man sobs. "Ev-Ev-Everett Ross. The little blond bastard from the deputy task force!"

"I've never heard of him. Any relation to Thaddeus Ross?"

"NO - no n-n-no but they work together! He works with Thaddeus Ross because of the UN accordances!"

"What does Vulture do for him?"

"I'm telling you he's a fucking informant! They protect him from the Avengers and SHIELD and he gives them all their - their - secrets!" The man is sobbing loudly. "I thought I'd go into shock now, man! But I ain't in shock! It hurts! It fucking hurts!" He finally makes eye contact, eyes and lips quivering. "Better hope he doesn't do you in next like he did Mac's guys! He sold them out!"

My eyes widen and I stumble backwards, away from him. My hands, arms, and shirt are drenched in his spray of blood. I look down at them in horror, tucking the gun methodically into my pants.

I nearly fall out of the door, tripping down the porch steps and rushing for the side of the pickup just as Jackson is getting in on the other side, laughing and stinking of firework smoke, a more distinctive, sulfur-like scent. Like I jumped into a cab bound for hell.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Jesus!" Jackson exclaims. "Look at YOU! Someone earned their stripes today, hot damn! What the hell is all that on your face?"

"He broke a bottle on my head! Okay? Now drive me home please," I say urgently. "I gotta wash all this off!"

"Oh, calm down," Jackson pulls away from the curb and we high tail it down the street. "No one saw ya."

"I don't care if anyone saw me. It's broad daylight and I'm covered in blood. What if you get pulled over or something? They got Randy, didn't they?"

"Don't get spooked. Randy was an idiot for speeding. Just calm the hell down. I'll drop you off at your garage and you can wash up."

"Thank you." I put my seatbelt on. "Next time? I'm wearing a mask!"

"So bring a freaking stocking mask already! And what the fuck did I say about talking?" Jackson reaches over and turns on the music that wasn't even on before.

Every pounding of the bass in the song punches a hole through my chest. Oddly, it keeps me centered, till I'm safely in my garage.

 _Home, I guess._ Still.

Then I can have another panic attack, alone.

Alone and washing blood off my hands in the tiny sink. No.

No no no no… wait. That's _evidence_ of a major crime I just _committed._

 _What am I DOING?_

I just shot someone.

 _Holy shit._

I need report that to Cap right away. Right away. Right away.

 _Holy shit I just shot someone._

I pick up the cell phone.

 _CIA. Don't they have eyes and ears in and on absolutely everything?_

I put the phone back down on the counter in slow motion, then I'm robotically opening the door and looking at the setting sun. It will be dark by the time I get to Brooklyn.

I've got to report this to Cap. Before he hears about it from someone else. Before they think it's the Parsons murder all over again.

 _I shot him. I shot him. I SHOT him._

And I don't even like guns. I like shooting webs, not bullets.

I feel like I don't recognize myself anymore. I'm a stranger, wearing Peter Parker's face.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Review Replies**

* * *

DaWriter06: Thanks for leaving a review! I am so happy you're enjoying my story!

Starnight5: I hope you enjoyed this little taste of Peter/MJ fluff! If I were any good at romantic comedy I'd just write about these two all day long. But alas, angst it must be. And I'm glad you enjoy Bruce and Natasha, I truly didn't like the pairing until I got into their heads. Now I ship it so hard. I'm curious if they're going to drop the romance or keep it going. Isn't it fun where our anger and sympathy fluctuates for a character? Bucky is a hard one to hate for me, but I really started to get annoyed with him by the end. haha. Soon you'll see why ;)

LooneyLovegood1981: Wow, I wish you all the luck and send prayers for good health/brain power/energy while you study abroad! That sounds very amazing. I am glad you get to go home for Christmas though. Christmas in Germany sounds like a magical kind of thing. Thank you so much for your continued thoughts on my chapters, and I'm happy you're enjoying the Bruce/Tasha/Bucky dynamics and feeling those emotions too.

curry-llama: Seriously Toomes is the worst! I almost enjoy writing him too much because it's easier to write someone who's so full of himself that his evil happens so easily. Toomes feels so justified and normal in his actions that he can't be reasoned with. He's going to have some intense scenes coming up soon that I think you will like. And thank you, yes cancer was tough, truly the worst. I'm three years in remission and feeling great now, but the experience definitely left lots of scars, both mentally and physically. I am sorry about your Aunt, and your other family. Best thing you can do for your peace of mind is do all the regular doctor visitation that you're supposed to, eat healthy and exercise are the most preventable measures. And most of all, you can't live in fear! You can't make that fear go away, but don't let it stop you from doing anything you want to do :)

Tightpants182: I felt the EXACT same way about Bruce and Natasha in Ultron! God it felt SO forced and ridiculous. But once I got into their heads I sort of forced myself to see it from their perspectives and suddenly I felt like I just got it. I mean, it's not too much of a stretch to imagine falling in love with Mark Ruffalo on my end... haha! He's one handsome dude! And hey, if you wana slap Bucky, I'll hold him for ya lol ;) Thanks for reading, as always. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

BeccaRave: There'll be a LOT of Peter coming up soon! Hopefully this chapter sort of made up for the lack of Peter in the last chapter :) Thanks for reading as always!

* * *

 **NEXT TIME** : It's about time there were some necessary face to face conversations with our favorite mentor/mentee relationship, and there's finally movement from the rat in the Avengers - and Peter's determined to find out who it is before he retires from this for good.

* * *

 **You can follow me for random fandom postings on instagram - pippin_strange**

 **Or on my personal account - myapapaya_adventures**


	13. Seeing the Endzone

_Dear Readers,_

Your kind words and thoughts are overwhelming! Thank you! These reviews mean everything to me and I'm so excited to hear what you think. Personal replies at the end.

 _-Pip_

* * *

 **Warnings: None, only Deadpool's version of the F word - FAMILY. Oh... wait. The actual F word does make a few appearances. This is the calmest, cleanest chapter you're going to have for awhile... so... enjoy it while it's here. Haha**

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Seeing the Endzone**

...

* * *

 **Beer Night -** _ **Steve Rogers**_

* * *

...

"So are we going to keep Sharon up with our bro time?" Tony asks casually, fiddling with the glove compartment.

 _Bro time…? What a phrase._ I reach over and shut the lid. "She doesn't live with me."

"Oh, she doesn't, huh?" Tony has been fishing for information for the past three weeks. Somehow he thinks that just because he finally set a wedding date with Ms. Potts, he is allowed to be overly invested in the rest of our love lives.

"No," I say firmly. "But she does, on occasion, stay over."

"Oh?"

I clear my throat and change the subject. "Did you bring the beer?" I already saw him put it into the back when I picked him up.

"Did YOU bring the Chinese?" He asks sarcastically. The whole car smells like Chinese.

"Yes. A hole-in-wall joint no one knows about."

"What, no Panda Express?"

"Authentic."

"Authentic Chinese food. Good choice."

"Better than your French breakfast, I hear."

"Too soon," Tony looks out the window at the passing brownstones. "I mean - the nerve. The _nerve_ of him, walking up like that. Threatening Pepper. Right in front of me, Steve. Right in front of me. I could have ripped his head off as easily as it takes to press a button on my watch to activate a pair of repulsor gloves. But the sanctions… I felt so powerless."

"Pepper okay?"

"She was worried. I told her as much as I could. But she's been my _assistant_ for god knows how long, she started making plans."

"Plans?"

"Trying to calculate how to take Vulture down."

"A little below her pay grade now, isn't it?"

"Ha. I reminded her she's CEO of Stark Industries, not a list maker." Tony opens the glove compartment again, then clicks it shut quickly. "It helps her compartmentalize her problems with possible solutions."

"Well…" I hesitate. "Good for her. She'll be okay tonight?"

"Okay? My good man, she asked - no, begged me, to get out of her hair."

"Doesn't surprise me," I laugh. I pull into my space, the tiny steep drive dropping like an asphalt cliff down into the basement garage of my brownstone.

Tony doesn't like the sharp descent. "Nice place," he mumbles.

"Don't you judge my space just because it's not a glass castle infused with Stark technology," I huff. "This shouldn't surprise you, but I prefer old architecture. Feels more like home."

"It's an upgrade from your old home," Tony leans into the windshield and looks up at the three stories. "If I remember my history textbook correctly."

Always with the age-jibes. "It's still Brooklyn."

I get out and fetch the two large tote bags from the back seat where the smell of various Chinese entrees echo with salivating steam. Tony struggles with deciding how he wants to carry the beer.

I walk up the steep drive back to the sidewalk, about to turn and walk up the six steep, brick steps for the front door, dark and ornate in the nightly shadows.

"Psst!"

I hesitate. This can't be good.

I slowly turn in the direction of the sound. "Who's there?" I call.

"Psst, Cap. It's me."

From the black of the streets shrouded by old growth oak trees, a skinny figure steps under the sickly, yellow lamplight.

"Shit," I react audibly. I rarely do, but this is surprising. "Peter, you can't be here."

"I know, I know, I found your home, I know that's a _huge_ invasion of privacy…" Peter looks every inch a homeless gangster. His shirt and jacket are stained, his face withdrawn, one black eye. There's several strange cuts on his cheek, temple, and above his eye. Still bleeding.

His sleeves are covered in blood… but it doesn't look like it's coming from him.

Jesus Christ. I knew I was taking a risk, but… putting him through this…

I regret it now. I do.

"No, I mean you can't be here tonight," I whisper urgently. "I have compan…"

"I got this, uh, Orval stuff?" Tony is talking loudly as he hikes up the car port. "It's straight from Belgium so it's supposed to be the…"

He stops short, staring at Peter.

"Oh shit," Peter says. I can see him struggling between choosing identities now. Does he pretend to be the criminal to save face in front of Tony Stark? And what would he do, exactly?

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Peter is frozen.

"Oh, shit," he says again.

Tony looks at me, back at Peter, then back again. "Someone mind filling me in?"

I give the street a solid once-over. No one is around. It's eight-thirty at night, the street is dark, windows are lit with late-night TV and dark with early sleepers.

All clear, thank God.

"Peter," I say calmly. "Sneak around back. Don't let anyone see or hear you. We'll let you in the kitchen. Okay?"

His eyes are so wide, he looks like a cartoon. Still staring at Tony.

"Peter," I repeat firmly. "He's okay. You're okay. Go to the back."

He nods numbly, turning and darting into the darkness.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Tony hisses.

"Not here," I sigh. I walk the totes up the stairs and unlock the heavy front door, pushing it open with a wooden groan. Tony follows me into my dark home, and I shut and lock the door behind me. I leave all the lights off on the porch, entry, and front hall.

Our shadows move quietly in the darkness down, down the long hall till we reach the wide kitchen. I pull the shades, the curtains, and unlock the back kitchen deadbolts.

Tony stands awkwardly with his beer cartons.

There's a gentle tap at the kitchen door. I open it, let Peter in, then shut and lock the bolts again behind him.

"Tony? Mind getting the lights?"

Tony smacks the nearest light fixture like his life depends on it. The recessed lighting fades in pleasantly, a warmer, golden light. Though more colorful, it does not actually improve Peter's overall appearance. He looks like he shoved his face through a window.

I force myself not to react loudly, and with a lot of swearing. I clench my jaw and stand still.

"Hey," Peter says awkwardly.

"Peter, this is Tony Stark. Tony, this is Peter Parker," I gesture between the two of them.

"We've spoken before," Tony says. "On the telephone, didn't we?"

Peter doesn't answer. He looks like he's…

"Sit down before you fall down," I pull out the chair at the head of the table. "Now."

He drops into it like lead. "How long have you known?" he asks Tony wearily.

"Since I spoke with you on the telephone," Tony walks the beer over to my fridge and puts it inside. He gives the nearby shelves a searching expression until he finds the glasses, running one under the spout in the refrigerator door.

"I'm sorry," Peter turns to me, watching me unload the Chinese food in different parcels across the table.

I feel like if I do anything other than what seems perfectly normal… like unloading my groceries… he's going to bolt, and it will be the last time we ever see him alive.

"Don't you apologize," I say firmly. "Not to me."

"I didn't know I gave it away. I don't even remember what I said."

"You didn't give it away," Tony holds a glass of water out to Peter. "I guessed."

Peter stares at the glass.

"It's water," Tony announces. "You drink it."

"Oh, right," Peter snorts with laughter. "It's just… um… you've been my hero for so long and… and… you're pouring me water? Sorry, that's embarrassing." He plunges his mouth at the glass like it will somehow erase the nerding out. He gulps like he's dehydrated.

"First aid kit?" Tony asks me.

"Under the sink."

Tony rummages under my sink. "So organized," he mutters. "Ooh, goody, a can of Pledge. The most patriotic furniture wax."

Peter huffs out a surprised laugh, nearly snorting water up his nose.

I know what Tony's doing. Being funny to cheer him up. Like getting a neon band-aid after a vaccine.

I'm surprised by this small revelation; Tony Stark is good with kids. Not a gold medalist, not by a long shot. But good.

"I should tell you why I'm here…" Peter begins, his voice - and his hands - are shaking.

"Give yourself a few minutes to calm down," I say as kindly as I can. I don't want him to _report -_ yet. I don't want him to think that his job is more important than him, and his health. Because clearly I've gone wrong somewhere along those lines.

Peter falls silent, appreciatively. I hear him let out a long breath.

I try to busy myself, digging for utensils in a drawer and napkins in a basket. "It's okay. You're here now. You can relax a little. We have plenty of time to talk." I give Tony a look.

Tony gives me a brief nod and returns to the table and sits on the other side of Peter. Peter is holding the sweating glass against his temple, suddenly lost in thought.

"I'm gonna need you to swing over this way," Tony says.

Peter tunes in. "Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, okay. Um. Thank you? Sir." He shifts around and faces him, setting the glass down. "You don't think any of this needs stitches, right?"

Tony give him an appraising look. "Probably not." He opens the plastic container and digs for tweezers. "Just try not to bleed."

"But I can't help if I…" Peter pauses. "Oh, you're joking. Joking. Got… it."

"He used to be funnier," I say.

"Hmph," Tony braces Peter's chin in his left hand and uses the tweezers to remove tiny shards of glass, dumping them into the empty bowl for fruit in the center of the table.

"Ow," Peter mutters.

"Don't flinch," Tony demands.

"I didn't flinch, you flinched," Peter exclaims.

A pause.

"So how'd you get this?" Tony asks.

Peter's eyes shift over to me. "Uh..."

"It's okay," I say, pulling three plates from the cupboard. "Anything that you would like to discuss tonight, you may say in front of him."

"Really?" Peter asks. Tony tugs his chin back into place.

"The _only_ reason he wasn't privy to your identity from the get-go is because he's only working the science division right now, not undercover or combat," I say, setting the dinnerware on the table. Setting three places. "He, on occasion, fills in for me on ops when I'm… for example… meeting with you."

"Oh," Peter says.

Tony gives one larger piece a particularly nasty _pluck._

"So, what happened?" I push, retrieving two more glasses.

"Guy broke a bottle on my face," Peter says shortly.

"Oof," Tony responds. "Not fun. Been there." He puts the tweezers down and picks up an alcohol swab. "This is gonna sting, Spider-boy."

This time, Peter flinches back so quickly he nearly tips the chair.

"Jesus. It won't sting _that_ much," Tony exclaims.

"Why'd you call me that?" he asks.

Tony holds out his hands defensively. "Because that's your super-hero-alter-ego?"

Smart bastard. I think Tony forgets, by default, how much more intelligent he is than the average human. I do not need to remind him, his ego will handle that for him in a day or two.

"No - no it's not," Peter stutters. "I mean - I'm not…"

"Classified information, naturally," I sigh. "Snooping through my files again?"

"Nice try," Tony replies. "And no."

"I don't have an alter ego," Peter lies, and badly.

"It's okay, Peter, I promise," I say. "If he knows… he knows."

"Hey, like he said," Tony shrugs. "I'm just the science division. I formed an informed hypothesis and was right."

"You… you won't tell anyone?" Peter pleads nervously.

"No reason to blab about it to anyone - ever?" Tony says firmly. "Think I'll just chat about this and risk your life? Hell no. Try to remember who you're talking to, here."

"Yeah," Peter says, and he grins suddenly. "The guy who announced in front of like, a million reporters that he was Iron-Man."

"I made a different call," Tony shrugs. "I'm not going to tell anyone about your super-secret neighborhood hero in the red and blue pajamas." He takes his chin firmly in his hand again. "You are in dire need of an upgrade, by the way. I think I might be able to help with the suit part of it once you're free and clear. Now. Hold. Still."

Offering an upgrade was a strangely evil genius move. Peter goes stock-still and his eyes grow wide with shock, trying to piece together what he just heard. Tony expertly dabs away at the cuts, ignoring Peter's sharp intake of breath.

I sit down across from them.

"There!" Tony says. He puts a piece of gauze over the biggest cut over his eye, tapes it down, and adds the second one on his cheek. "Oh, look," he says, pulling two capsules out of the box. "Two aspirin. Take these."

Peter does as he says.

Tony gives his shoulder an awkward pat. "Uh - mischief managed. Now. Let's talk."

"Wait, - wait, I mean, thank you," Peter touches the gauze with a careful hand. "But, um, what were you saying about a suit upgrade?"

Tony stands, closing up the first aid kit. Looks in the fruit bowl, guiltily takes both back to the sink. "Ah… just… brainstorming a little. Something to keep in mind for when you're all finished with this mission."

"A suit?" repeats Peter.

"Maybe," Tony replies with a shrug. "Maybe several. That's a conversation for another time." He nods at me. "I think you're up."

"You took a great risk coming here tonight, Peter," I say carefully. "If you… uh… feel up to it, maybe you can tell us what happened."

"I know, I know, I know," Peter says. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. I jeopardized everything."

Tony returns to the table. Sits on the other side of Peter, so we're facing each other.

"Start from the beginning," I say slowly.

"Today th-th-they made… made me uh…" Peter changes gears, doesn't think we'd notice.

We do.

"Today I spoke to one of the Vulture's lesser associates," he says instead, "and he said that Vulture is protected by the CIA."

"Protected," Tony repeats. "With what? Bubble wrap?"

"Immunity. He's giving intel and people to some guy named Everett Ross," Peter says.

Tony and I meet eyes. Damn.

"That would explain why things always seem to work out in his favor," I say, "and they didn't even try to arrest him before the microprocessors went missing."

"The microprocessors are such a big deal that they _can't_ evade an investigation... because then it would be obvious he worked for them," Peter adds. "Try to stop all the good guys from taking a world-threatening bad guy and you'd look _really, really bad_."

"Thank you for coming and telling us tonight, Peter," I say. "I can see why you skipped the phone."

"The CIA listen to everything in all the movies I've seen, AND they just caught Vulture's favorite driver, anyway," Peter says, a little embarrassed. "I… I admit I freaked out. And I left as soon as I could. The guy I… talked to… he said Vulture sells people out. That's what happened the night Bryan Parsons was killed. Vulture sold out Mac's crew, not Parsons. On the same night the Hand tried to stop them."

"So the Vulture himself tipped them off," I muse. "I'm sure Ross regretted getting involved - a lot of his agents were killed by the Hand that night."

"Toomes acted really pissed about it," Peter says. "He seems so transparent about everything else, I didn't realize how much of it was a show." He looks down. "I guess I never thought about he and I almost doing the same thing. Feeding information to the good guys."

"It's not all a show," Tony growls, and I know he's thinking about the restaurant. "You realize the difference between you and him, right, kid? He was already a criminal and was struck a deal for protection he doesn't deserve. You are faking the crimes till we get him behind bars. Right?"

Peter looks up, surprised. "No?"

"No, not 'no'," Tony says. "There's a mind spiral I recognize that you should _not_ pursue."

"Um… yes, sir," Peter replies. "But…"

"But what?" Tony demands.

I watch the exchange silently. They would have made good partners. I can see it now: the future I potentially robbed him from. I should have let him go interview with Tony Stark for the internship. I should've have hijacked his opportunity just because he was Spider-Man.

All I saw was an enhanced, masked hero of legal age.

An asset.

But now I can see what I've done… I didn't put Spider-Man into the hell of the criminal underworld for the brutal task of being a double-agent.

I put Peter Parker there, with an incredible oversight, lack of resources and protection.

I assumed too much of the hero that took bad guys out with web shooters. I made it impossible for Peter Parker to _use_ his alter-ego.

Peter should've gone through to that interview with Stark. He'd be safely, and happily, interning with us in the Tower and going home to his aunt every night with a new experience to share. That would have been the better option.

But I didn't see _better_ options. I only saw what was necessary for my own, perhaps even selfish, means. Yes, Hydra and their subdivisions are enemies of the state - but at what expense do we sacrifice our brightest minds to bring them down?

 _You sacrificed yourself,_ my brain argues. _You're not asking anyone else to do anything harder than you've already done - and Hydra still prevails._

Where does it end?

I'm sure Bruce Banner would have some choice things to say to me about this, if he knew. For now I'm grateful Tony won't be telling anyone.

I need to manage this situation and get Peter safely out before I make my shame public. And I'll own it. I have to. It's only the right thing to do.

"I shot someone today," Peter whispers, bringing my rabbit-trail of processing to a screeching halt. "I didn't kill him, I was expected to, but I didn't, so I shot him in the leg, otherwise, otherwise…"

"Otherwise they'd know," Tony finishes for him.

"Yeah but I _said…"_ Peter gulps down a sob, pushes the heel of his hand under his eyes to prevent tears. "I said I'd never pull the trigger, didn't I, Cap? Didn't I say that? I said I never would. Then, then, boom. Easy. I was put in a no-win situation and did it anyway."

Tony and I glance at each other. We're not mental health professionals and we don't want to say the wrong thing.

"You did the job," Tony says. "And while it probably sucked for the guy big time, you saved his life, too. Perspective."

"You kept yourself safe, and you saved a life," I say gently. "It may not seem like it, but that's a win-win."

Peter shakes his head and looks away. "Sure, a win," he says tiredly.

"Sometimes that's what our job requires," I say quietly. "We know it's not okay, and we know it's not easy - how you feel, afterwards. We understand with this job comes certain violence. Something the Avengers have to deal with every time we're on the field of combat. But I am sorry - I am sorry you had to do this today."

He doesn't answer; he looks down quietly at the floor, mouth pursed shut.

I can hear the grandfather clock in my entry.

Tick, tick, tock.

"Again," I repeat, "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. This is important. You made the right choice - as frightening as that must have been."

"Oh, yeah, uh, sorry," Peter stands up. "That's all the news I had. I should probably go."

"Not so fast," I say. "You should have some dinner before you go."

"Oh, no no no, that's okay, I'm good, I'll just…" He turns and walks for the kitchen door.

"Peter," I say firmly, "Come on, son. It's late. You look like you haven't eaten in weeks. Have some dinner."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's not," I promise. "Come sit down."

He hesitates, hand on the doorknob, turning back and looking at us sorrowfully. "It does smell good, but I've got a long walk..."

Tony opens one of the boxes quickly. "Fried rice?" he offers.

Another strangely genius move. The scent is too powerfully good to say no to. Peter sighs and returns to the table. "S'long as it's okay." He only just now notices the third place setting, sits back at his chair. "Thanks," he says hoarsely.

Tony and I start to divvy up the entrees. Probably overloading Peter's plate.

I feel guilt now; guilt that I can't take back or erase.

I can only make it right.

"Consider this a celebratory dinner," I say, dumping a forkful of noodles on Peter's plate. "You are coming home to Avengers Tower soon. I've got someone working on staging a… an _incident_ to pull you out."

Peter's eyes light up. "Really?"

"I'm only sorry it couldn't happen before," I say. "At the harbor. It was…"

"I know," Peter says quickly. "It wasn't safe to do it when they changed their exit strategy. Especially if they had more hidden air support and bombing crap right and left."

Tony gives me, and Peter, a mean look that seems to say he disagrees entirely.

Wade was right - Tony would have suited up instantly if he thought swooping over the boat and yanking Peter out by his arms would've worked without anyone getting killed.

But someone may have gotten killed.

I can't think of a functioning team without these two involved with it. They're more than the talent and strength they provide. They are foundational.

"I didn't want to risk either of you," I say. "The easy choice is not always the right choice. Would have been easy to snatch you up. Would have been the most dangerous and most likely to go wrong."

"I understand," Peter says. I can see the muscles around his shoulders and neck relax as he begins to eat.

"But we won't jeopardize your safety any longer if we can help it," I say. "I'll move the pieces on my end faster than I would otherwise. I'll need to meet with you one more time to extract you. We'll let you know when, and where."

"Okay," Peter says, his eyes lighting up. "Okay… that sounds… good."

"Extraction will take place on a rooftop," I continue. "So no one is peering through their windows and taking notes."

"Yeah, yeah, rooftop, cool," Peter grins.

"But I won't tell you which one till it's time so we don't compromise you. Wade and I will figure out the x factors, let you know when it's safe."

Looks like Christmas morning is here.

Peter's eating as if he actually has a healthy appetite. Even Tony looks pleased.

"What about…" Peter hesitates. "What about Aunt May? Can she… can she come home?"

"For her safety, not yet. There will likely be some fall out by pulling you so quickly. If we can do it without outing you, great. If not, you'll likely have a target on your back for some time. That's why we always wanted to make the arrests simultaneously. If we get you out, but Vulture and his posse are still free to think, plan… they won't take too kindly to having their favorite toy snatched away."

"Oh, I get it, yeah," Peter nods. "Till things settle down. Then… THEN Aunt May can come home."

"Who's this Aunt May?" Tony asks.

"Someone who could take you out if you push the wrong button," I say.

"Does she know about the whole Spider-boy thing?" Tony asks.

"Spi… Spider-Man," corrects Peter shyly. "And yes - yes she does."

"How'd she find out?" Tony asks.

"She walked in on me in the suit."

"You mean the pajamas."

"I tried to tell her they were pajamas," Peter says. "It didn't work. She's smarter than me."

"Hmph," Tony looks doubtful. "So, would it be too early to say you'll be working in my labs in a week or two? I really, really wouldn't mind learning how to replicate that web fluid you used…"

Peter looks at me hopefully.

"Less than that," I say quickly. "We can't leave you in this mess any longer. That's on me, and I accept full responsibility for that. One week at the _most._ "

"A week, huh?" Tony asks.

"That's how long it takes to make arrangements to fake someone's abduction and death," I answer firmly. "Like I said, if we were able to extract him _during an arrest,_ the problem would be solved. Vulture would be incapacitated. But we're not going to wait that long - not if Everett Ross is determined to keep the Vulture on the streets. We'd probably wait _years_ before he folds on his own informant. I'll need a week."

Peter smiles happily. "All right. Okay. Cool. I can do another week of this. Yeah."

"I'll clear off a workstation for you," Tony quips. "It's about time Bruce started his spring cleaning anyway."

Peter's eyes widen. "I can't believe I get to meet _Bruce Banner,_ too."

...

* * *

 **The Elusive Mason -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

There's never been a beautiful evening more hopeful than this one.

One more week, I think. I can do one more week.

Easy.

Stay alive and don't get caught for one week.

And then I'm done.

And then I'm an Avenger.

Mason calls me and tells me to meet the crew at Jo's Diner. This time, I tuck a stocking mask in my back pocket. Like a beanie with eye-holes cut out. Nothing red or blue, though. Just black.

I set off with a cheerful whistle.

The cheer feels a little less certain when I walk in.

"Hey, you must be Peter!"

A chubby man in navy blue coveralls approaches me at the door. He wears a gray beanie and a reddish beard. "I'm Phineas Mason!"

"Oh, hey, Mason," I say, genuinely pleased. "I'm Peter Parker, nice to finally meet you."

I shake his hand. His entire demeanor exudes an essence of friendliness, non threatening, even perhaps kind. Like this guy ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and just wanted to use his degree for inventing and didn't play close enough attention to who he was inventing things for.

"Nice to meet you too!" he replies, smiling.

Maybe Cap can take Mason, too. Put him to work doing some good things instead.

"So weird about those microprocessors right?" Mason laughs. "I really thought we were going to sell them, but boss canceled the whole thing and took the fakes - well, you were there. I get to keep the real thing for while longer and add all kinds of fun gizmos to them!"

"Yesh, um," I laugh. "So what are you adding to them exactly?"

"That's the surprise," Mason jokes. "Can't tell you yet. But. It'll be worth it. Anyway. Listen, we're having a staff meeting today. Boss wants names, aliases, social security numbers, license numbers, bank account numbers… that sort of thing."

The air feels colder now. "Why?" I laugh. "Is he setting up dental benefits for us? My wisdom teeth are sore."

"No, no, nothing like that," Mason chuckles, pushing my shoulders into the diner. I see Jackson and Aaron sitting across from each other at a booth, writing things on notepaper. Jackson has his forehead pressed into the palm of his hand like a kid in high school struggling over a test answer. He has his Shocker gauntlet sitting up on the table beside him like most kids would keep a calculator.

"So…" I ask. "For what then?"

Mason becomes suddenly distracted, running over to Aaron and Jackson and taking their papers. "Thank YOU," he says, walking over to the bar where he has a laptop set up.

He begins tapping away at the keyboard, typing the info from the papers onto a spreadsheet.

He notices I'm standing there.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you need some scratch paper?" he asks.

"Sure, yeah," I sit next to him at the counter and accept a piece of notepaper. I write my social security number and name, and the latest number of the burner phone I got from them. Then I add the address of Ben's garage for good measure.

"That's it?" Mason asks.

"I don't have a car or a bank account," I shrug. "Before prison my Aunt took care of all that."

Yeah, definitely not going to note my "fake" bank account from Uncle Ben. Even if it is supposed to look okay from an outsider's perspective, I don't want to risk the origin of the account tying back to the Avengers. Or that they are the ones that deposit money into it for me to live off in case the Vulture doesn't pay me enough.

Which, he doesn't. Not for the things he likes us to do.

A few other guys I've never met walk up sheets of paper, dropping them off with Mason. Schultz comes out of the pool room, nods in greeting, and walks right on by us.

"Lemme guess," I ask, "He didn't have to fill one out."

"No, no, everyone did, even Schultz, and he's Vulture's right hand man."

"Even the favorites are getting outed," I muse.

"Outed?" Mason asks. "What do you mean?"

"Did you ever stop and think that the boss is gonna sell us out?" I ask.

"Why would you think something like that?"

"We worked for him just fine without it. Unless I'm getting dental I don't see the point."

"Well, truth be told, I don't know what it's for," Mason says, and adds in a whisper, "But between you and me, I think it's for an undercover operative."

"Like in Shield?" I whisper back. "I know there's a lot a guys in Shield who prefer tentacles to eagles, if you know what I mean."

Mason chuckles. "Could be, could very well be. That, or, it's his guy in the Avengers Tower." He taps his nose. "Smart bosses have eyes on _all_ potential business threats."

Just like Captain America feared. This is the most I'd ever heard about it.

"Do you like the idea of him handing over our information to someone pretending to be an Avenger?" I whisper. "What if they're not pretending? What if he's selling us out to the AVENGERS?"

Mason shakes his head, but he looks worried. "I… I don't think that's it."

"I don't want to sit here and wait for the Avengers to show up," I hiss. "No thanks. I did not enjoy prison." I hop off the stool.

"I respect that you're concerned about it," Mason says calmly. "Really. I can see why it would look bad. But trust me. Boss would never do that to us. He hates the Avengers too much." He tugs a blue thumb drive out of the port in the laptop, and looks around the counter. "Oh no," he mutters.

"What?" I ask.

"I lost the lid thing," he sighs. "Look… boss doesn't exactly let me just run to Office Depot every time I need something. Okay? So," he holds the thumb drive loosely in his hand. "I just hope this makes the trip, s'all."

"Why?" I snort. "Is he shooting it over to Avengers Tower in a canon?"

"Oh, he's flying it himself to an undisclosed location. It gets damp up there, you know, in the high altitudes. I'm sure he'll zip it up in his pocket."

"What's the worst that happens?" I ask.

"It falls down into New York city somewhere?"

"No, I mean, to you. If it doesn't go well."

"I don't want to lose my job over something like this," Mason sighs.

"Why would you think you'd lose it anyway?"

"Boss threatens to drop me as a joke a lot," Mason shrugs. "I don't want to give him an actual reason to!"

"We can still… protect the drive, Mason," I pat his shoulder tentatively. I've never met someone, other than myself, that worries so much over the extraneous detail. "We'll find something…" I hop onto the counter, spin in a circle, and drop my legs down on the other side. For a few minutes I search behind the counter.

There's no sign of Jo anyway, and the sign on the door says CLOSED.

I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I borrowed something.

"Look, how about this," I say, ripping off a strip of saran wrap. I take the thumb drive and wrap the plastic around the end, sealing it up tightly. "That should keep it dry, anyway, if he were to drop it in a puddle. As for dropping it from a thousand feet or more, well, that's not on you if he does."

Mason brightens up. "Thanks," he says, tapping the saran-wrapped thumb drive in his hand. "That makes me feel a whole lot better. If there's one thing I understand, it's the importance of protecting electronics."

I chuckle. "Anytime."

He collects his laptop into a bag, gives me a nod, and leaves the diner.

I hop over the counter again and drop onto the other side, tipping an invisible hat to Jackson and Aaron. "Well, as long as we don't have a job, I'm going home and sleeping till we do."

"Boss wanted us to hang out here till he made his delivery," Jackson replies drolly.

"Schultz didn't stay."

"He's Vulture's number one. He doesn't HAVE to stay."

"Mason didn't stay," I respond.

"That's because he's the one with the fucking data," Jackson sighs.

"Why not just send an email?" I ask.

"Online footprints of any kind can be traced, from anywhere, y'know, like, big bro is always watching," Aaron says. "So's I heard we do it the old fashioned way."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever. If there's a job that needs doing that pays me money, I'll be back. For now, I want my slightly depleted air mattress."

I imagine my air mattress, shuffling down the sidewalk like a criminal on his day off.

But I turn the other direction and I follow Mason like a shadow.

When he makes it two or three blocks ahead of me, I call Cap on the other cell.

"Hey Cap," I whisper. "I got potential intel coming your way. One of our guys is making a delivery to the Vulture, and the Vulture is going to deliver to _his man in Avengers Tower._ That's all I know. You're definitely compromised."

"What are you doing right now?"

"Following the delivery."

"We've put you in danger long enough. I thought we agreed you were done, you've got to lay low till extraction..."

"Yeah, sure, okay. I'm perfectly safe though. I'm just tailing him."

"End pursuit. That's an order."

"Yes sir, Cap."

I hang up the phone and scuff my feet lightly along the ground, skirting around the edges of buildings, stepping behind power poles and garbage cans when I see Mason making turns or otherwise looking any other direction but ahead.

To my surprise, Mason goes to a dirt lot fenced in by parked semi trucks and chain link on the same company property where our sale with Mac's crew went so horribly… out of hand. From the Hand.

I make myself giggle and duck with a _whoosh_ out of sight when Mason abruptly turns in a confused circle, looking around the derelict dump and eyeing the oil drums and stacked plywood with worried confusion.

Then I hear him. And I put my black stocking mask on.

Across the river, the strength of the Vulture's wings cut into the water like the wake of a boat as he approaches from the Manhattan side. I can hear the churning, hydraulic pulses of his wings in action. I don't know that I've ever seen him fly in before, and the curiosity is overwhelming.

But I remain right where I'm hidden. I don't peek over the edge of the stacked crates. Even in the growing darkness, the warm peach tones of a smoggy sunset deepening, I can't risk being seen.

I can listen just as well.

The wings wind and plummet like the landing gear of a jet plane, and there is a rush of hot wind stirring up tiny devils of lot dust.

"Got what I asked for?" I hear Toomes voice, gravelly and bored.

"Here you go, boss," I hear Mason say. "All the info you needed, safe and sound."

"Th' fuck is this?"

"Saran wrap?" Mason answers, worriedly. "To… you know, keep it safe. From moisture… in the altitudes."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," I hear him snatch the drive out of Mason's meaty hand. "The altitudes."

"Need anything else?" Mason asks, relieved.

"How's the inventory on Asgardian steel?"

"It's low but we haven't had any new orders lately, so it hasn't been depleted much since we last needed it."

"Why don't you just go ahead and use the rest? Outfit some of those flamethrowers we were talking about."

"Sure, sure! That's my dream project! Thanks boss!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Toomes says impatiently. "Just… go make yourself useful. Enjoy. Don't bug me again about them until they are ready for beta testing, then we'll have some fun."

"Great. Okay. Well. Later, boss."

"Godspeed, Mason."

I shrink further into the shadows when I hear Mason's footfalls in the dirt heading for the opening between the fences. I watch his figure appear behind the crates, aiming for the street, where he soon disappears into the public spaces.

It doesn't take long before I hear him loudly on the telephone with an Uber driver, explaining where to meet him for pick up.

His voice recedes and eventually disappears.

I expect to hear Vulture's wings take off any second. I expect I will then wait until they are an appropriate distance away, then lean over the crates and watch. If I can see approximately where he goes, I can get the info to Cap. On the crazy and slim chance that I can spot where he lands - then I could help them narrow it down once and for all. Like what if he arranged to meet someone at the top of the Federal Reserve building? I'd be able to see it from the end of the India street viewpoint.

It seems too easy to hope for.

Within seconds, I know that it _definitely_ is. And I am not so lucky.

My spider-sense begins to clamor alarmingly.

Someone else is here. Someone else is approaching - someone tall, thick. Reeking with danger and… confusion, an aura of uncertainty somehow combined with violence.

I hear the footsteps.

They are assured, quiet. Not trying to be stealthy but good at it anyway.

They enter the lot from the southern side by the mobile trailer office.

This is the person he's dropping off the drive with. He told Mason he was flying it somewhere to give him false information. Just in case he blabbed it… to someone like me?

He arranged to meet them both in the same place all along.

Who knows, maybe this fourth party has been here all along, waiting for Mason to disappear until he could emerge.

What if he saw me follow him in?

What if he was following me?

"Jesus," I hear Toomes curse. "I nearly shot you."

The other person does not respond.

"Look, I'm not accustomed to being bossed around by Shield executives so that you can feel comfortable doing your fucking job," Toomes says. "So here you go. Data on all my men. Fresh from the oven."

"If it helps figure out who your mole is, then maybe your effort will be worth it," the other responds coolly. I don't recognize his voice at all. It sounds young, tired, and bored. It also sounds strangely muffled, as if he's wearing a mask, but not something cloth. Maybe something made out of some sort of plastic, like a paintballing mask.

"You know if they keep pointing fingers at me, those are going to come back and start pointin' at you," Toomes says.

"How so?"

"You don't think they're working just as hard to find out who _you_ are?"

"I've earned their trust."

"That's not what your boss tells me."

"It's a work in progress."

"I don't envy you this double life. Me? I can be whoever the hell I want, when I want to. I gave Stark a little taste of how untouchable I am the other day."

"Yes, he wouldn't shut up about it."

"So it bothered him? Good. Maybe they'll ease up a little."

"Don't count on it. He's _pissed."_

"But he can't do nothing about it."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he skipped every parameter designed to protect ordinary citizens from the Avenger's taking justice into their own hands."

"God bless the Accords."

"It certainly makes your job easier," says the newcomer, with some bitterness. "The Avengers are just colorful enforcers of the UN's bidding. And the UN never bids for you. Why is that? Who exactly are _you_ feeding?"

"Maybe I'm a people person." I can _hear_ Toomes smiling nastily.

"Because you are valuable to Hydra, and Hydra has their hands in everything?"

"Including your own head, I hear. How DO you like scrambled brains for breakfast?"

I hear a sudden movement of arm, a shuffle of body parts, and a gasp as someone starts to fall - but the humming of the wings on stand-by suddenly reignite, lashing out, and there's a metallic _slap_ and hiss of air.

The stranger stumbles back with a growl of anger.

"Try to hit me again and one of my feathers cuts your arm right off," Vulture says coolly. "Try and come at me again. I fucking dare you."

The stranger spits on the ground.

"Your boss will pour your brains out like old coffee if you touch me again," Vulture continues angrily. "I'm the supply for their demand. You are nothing but his neighborhood watchdog in a place you don't fucking belong. You are nothing. You're a robot. Enjoy browsing through my team's social security numbers. If anyone is truly posing a danger to my operations - it ain't my guys."

"Oh yeah? Who is it, then?"

"It's probably you, you piece of shit. You're playing both sides anyway. Any favors you've seen fit to grant me usually come with two or three stipulations, and I've never seen any payback from the intel I give you."

"I don't take orders from you, Vulture." He growls. "Never have and never will."

"Oh yeah? What if he teaches me that special password, huh? The one that lets me into your brain? Maybe I'll ask for it. Then you're _my_ watchdog."

"He and he alone has the capability to erase me and make me do what he wants."

 _Say the name,_ I think desperately. _Just say the damn name!_

"The only thing worse than a double agent is a double agent with a heart," Toomes muses. "I bet if that spangled Captain of yours ate a bullet, you'd pick a side real fast."

"There's no such thing as sides," he responds tiredly. "There's only the job."

"Ooph, poetic," mocks Toomes. "I think we're through here. God save America."

I hear the wings unfold with jet-engine whines, the hot metal sending vibrations through the air. The knife-like feathers flutter, catching a breeze, and the Vulture jets off the ground like a rocket. Within minutes, the engine fades into the sky, the sorbet swirls of the clouds quickening into purple during the exchange.

This is my chance to get this guy.

 _That's an order,_ Captain America had said. Maybe he'd feel differently if I knew I was about to discover the identity of the informant for Hydra hiding in Avengers Tower.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Reviewer Replies**

* * *

Queen of Crystallopia: LOL GIRL YOU ARE CRAZY. Your reviews MADE MY DAY... NIGHT... all of it. I don't know how I lucked out gaining you as a friend IRL. Thank you.

DaWriter06: Neutral! I'm obsessed with canon relationships, I very rarely ship anyone else haha. Thanks for the review! I am SO glad you're enjoying my lil book!

Starnight5: If you love the MJ and Peter moments, you're REALLY gonna like the next chapter lol... :) :) Thank you so much for reviewing! And for reals, that trailer gave me ALL the feels and not in a good way lol... except for the Ant-Man moment at the gate!

curry-llama: Your girlfriend's name is PIP!? What are the ODDS lol... don't worry I am definitely not your girlfriend moonlighting as a fanfiction writer but wouldn't that be hilarious?! XD Dude your work sounds stressful, I hate jobs when the bosses can call the workers and make you stressed when you're not even at work. That's the worst! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing :) :)

Sakura-Fiction: O my goodness, THANK YOU! (hugs!)

LooneyLovegood1981: Peter made it safe and sound, but not for too much longer haha. Thank you so much as always for your reviews! I am so glad you're enjoying!

Tightpants182: I am using fanfiction to cope from the Infinity War scarring as well. That trailer KILLED ME. I'm with you in solidarity lol. And thank you so much for reading, I am so glad you enjoyed the last chapter. It's so fun to write snarky MJ!

* * *

 **NEXT TIME:**

It's a Bucky vs. Peter fight to the DEATH! Well, not death. But afterwards, Peter must drag his sorry ass right back to his beautiful, nursing-student girlfriend...


	14. Crossing Lines

_Dear Readers,_

 _Merry Christmas my dear, wonderful readers! Alas it has been far too long (AGAIN!) since I've posted, so this little Christmas present chapter should hopefully make it up. As always, replies at the end of the chapter. Please let me know what you think, this was one of my favorite chapters to write, but I was so iffy about the content, I was texting my friends throughout the process to spaz out and ask for their encouragement! Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Merry Christmas, all the bright wishes and biggest hugs!_

 _-Pip_

* * *

 **Warnings: FLUFF. ALL THE FLUFF THAT ACTUALLY... GOES SOMEWHERE. Things get slightly... uh... physical before a tasteful FADES TO BLACK. Okay, in clinical terms - the characters make out. Okay? They kiss. They kiss A LOT. There's a lot of kissing. French kissing. A little handsy. BUT NOT LIKE (THAT). Get your minds out of the gutter!**

 **Also, there is a big fight scene. So, violence and threat of violence. BUT NOT AT THE SAME TIME AS THE KISSING.**

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Crossing Lines**

...

* * *

 **Spy vs. Spy -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

* * *

...

It isn't until the damn machinery of those wings fade into the distance that I hear something out of place.

Breathing.

Not mine, naturally. Someone else, hiding approximately forty-five feet away behind stacked crates along the fenceline.

I turn slowly towards the sound, listening.

How likely is it to be a kid, sneaking around a construction lot at night, smoking grass and ignoring no-trespassing signs because it seems exciting? I did the similar things as a kid.

Or it's someone who knows exactly what he is doing here.

Waiting to strike.

I zip the drive into my breast pocket. Listen to the breathing adjust, increasing slightly in pitch, frequency.

He knows I'm listening for him.

A small figure wearing a dark jacket and a black stocking mask like a cartoon burglar stands up slowly from behind the crates.

I try to remember the roster that Vulture brought with him to the exchange with Klaue. At least four of the grunts fit this description. He's white, medium-to-short height, on the young side. Can't tell hair or eye color because of the mask.

All of the wiry, skinny, criminal guys needing cash to fuel their heroine habits look the same when you put a sock over their head and conceal their upper body in black, baggy clothing.

I'll have to review the footage later. Compare it to the data on the thumb drive, run the social security numbers through our systems. Narrow the search.

He walks resignedly out into the open, approaching me with martyred, but brave, steps.

Brave or foolish.

"Before we get started," I say calmly. "Anything you'd like to ask me?"

"I have just a few questions," he asks. He's very clearly trying to force his voice down a few octaves to disguise it. "I just need to know who you are and who you work for."

"No."

"Why are you wearing that mask thing?"

I take a patient breath.

"Oh. Okay," he says. "We can do this the hard way, then."

"Trust me," I say tiredly. "You don't want to push me tonight."

"Don't worry, I'm going to push you! I'm going to arrest you!"

I blink at him.

"Citizens arrest?" he corrects sheepishly.

I expect Steve's undercover agent would be enhanced. He'd be a fool to send someone in who couldn't fend for themselves.

I guess it's time to find out for sure.

"Try me," I say evenly.

There is a small part of me surprised at the speed. The rat sprints right for me, and when I step aside to avoid him, we both reach for each other for the same, calculated move. I go for the back of his jacket to yank him off his feet, and he goes for the arm, attempting to loop his own through the crook of my elbow, jerk me back, and catch me off balance.

Overshooting in a half circle, we both launch past each other.

He's smaller and faster, but I am stronger and more experienced. I deliver a solid punch to his ribs, arm cutting up and under his chin to shove him back. He naturally flies backwards, avoiding the false impression of the head snapping back too quickly and breaking his neck. But instead of falling backwards on his ass like he should of, he merely uses the momentum to backflip through the air, land on his feet in a crouch, and then launch himself right back at me. I don't have enough time to step back before he flies right into my knees, knocking them sideways.

I growl with pain and shock, stumbling out of his wrangling arms, reaching down with both hands and grabbing handfuls of his jacket. Putting all my strength into it, I lift him off and toss him aside.

He spins out, lands on his hands and knees, facing away. With a cough of getting the air knocked out of him, I have half a second to stomp towards him again. Without even looking at me, he kicks his leg out firmly, catching me right in the shin.

I drop to one knee, grab the back of his head, and try to yank the stocking mask off. My other hand reaches for the knife at my belt.

"Oops! No! I need that, thanks!" He ducks his head and somersaults out of reach, and my knives meets nothing but empty air as I stab it into the dirt.

"Yikes!" he shrieks. "I'll take THAT!" he somersaults back into me, kicking my hand off the knife's pommel, and shoving back at my chest with both hands - driving me away from being able to recover it. I take a step back, reevaluating. So he's a good fighter, and incredibly flexible. Every move I try, he has another limb in my way.

So let's eliminate limbs.

I beckon him forward with both hands.

"COME ON," I growl. "Try again."

"My pleasure!" He picks up the knife from the ground, throws it through air like a quarterback. I hear it land on the nearest warehouse roof with a metallic clink - at least a hundred yards away.

I rush him and body slam him fully, listening to his gasp of surprise and pain. I hammer into his arms and chest and with my fists, one, two, three - six times, solid hits each and every one. I find an opening, grasping his arm and jerking it behind his back, threatening to dislocate the shoulder. This would stop anyone ordinary - but no, his free arm elbows me in the stomach, uppercut in the chin, grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks my own head down into the top of his scalp.

This nearly busts my nose and almost knocks him unconscious as our heads collide.

Dizzy, he groans, and we both let each other go and fall away from each other.

"Damnit," I let out, pushing at my nose with my fist, gloved hand pulling away with smears of dark blood.

"Do - you - give - up?" he asks breathlessly. "It'd be easier if I just took you to Avengers tower and let Captain America decide what to do with you."

I flex my arms, punching the air, as if warming up to make his face cave in.

"Can't if your dead," I respond tightly, and this time -

No mercy, no mercy, no mercy, no mercy.

In a volley of hits too precise for him to windmill his arms away from, I hit him in the pressure points, giving a dead arm and a dead leg, and as much as he tries to fight me off, I manage to grab one wrist in my hand, squeezing it until I'm fairly certain the arm will break - I think he realizes it, too, because he suddenly becomes a cat drenched in water. Fingers flying into my eyes, yanking on any exposed skin above the mask, using his own legs to walk up my body and flip himself out of my grasp, nearly tearing out his own arm in the process.

But I'm relentless, I follow, no pause for recovery, no time to breathe.

I am the robot that Toomes said I was.

And I'm about to kill this person.

If anything, to protect what I have left. Some semblance of my friendship with my oldest friend and a place in this world on the side of good.

I knock the kid flat out onto the ground, dropping a knee into his sternum and delivering three painful blows to the side of his head, till red blood fills his mouth and his face looks like many, many other of my previous victims.

I bring out the second knife, and I aim for his eye socket.

He brings up his knee so hard it hits me right in the small of my back, knocking off my aim, and in the last millisecond he jerks his head to the side, smearing it in the dirt, and I plant the knife's blade right beside his head, nearly slicing off an ear.

The knee, again, hard into my spine, and then he gets his arms free, wrapping them around my neck. With incredible and unexpected strength, he throws my body up, and over his head, till I land in a hard heap into the dirt myself.

"You ever see that really old movie?"

I feel him pick up the knife, and then this one, too, gets thrown an impossible distance.

"The one where the Dread Pirate Roberts takes out Fezzik the Giant to save the princess?"

I quickly roll onto my hands and knees to get up.

Suddenly he's on my back, arms wrapping tightly around my throat, legs wrapping around my middle like a monkey pretending to be a backpack.

Trying to cut off my air supply.

Smother me into unconsciousness.

Not going to happen.

"Stop, talking," I growl. I hit his arm, pull at them with my hands, trying to dislodge them.

"No, no, no," he yelps, "YOU better stop talking! Your air is limited!"

I've had enough of this.

I didn't expect to be evenly matched.

So maybe I won't kill him tonight.

But I won't end this mercifully, either.

Instead of trying to pry apart his arms, I throw myself backwards onto the ground as hard as I possibly can, nearly breaking my back and throat, but crushing him beneath me in the process. He lets out a pained _oomph,_ and the lack of juvenile commentary helps me gauge how much I hurt him.

Hurt him well enough.

His arms loosen.

I launch myself out of his grasp, rolling over and turning to grapple with his weakened arms and legs.

The wind was knocked out of him, and now he struggles to fight back, breathless.

Two can throw like quarterbacks here.

I grab one of his wrists, and then the waistband of his jeans.

I see a gun tucked into the belt.

What the…?

Why the HELL didn't he just pull a gun on me to start with?

Clearly, he's new at this.

 _That_ should have been his first move.

He could have just pulled a gun on me, I would have fought him, taken the gun, and shot him in the head and dumped him in the river. Easy.

Even know, I could pull it from his belt, press it to his temple, pull the trigger.

I could, and should.

I lift his entire body up like a farmer lifting hay bales out of a truck, get a swinging start, and chuck his body as hard and as far as I can.

His limbs flail through the air and he lands right on the roof of the mobile trailer office. I hear the metallic crunch of the roof bending inwards, absorbing the impact, and the whimper of pain that he unleashes from his breathless flight and inability to stop the landing properly.

"H-h-hey! Hey - you!" he calls in a tinny, far off voice. "You psycho! I'm not done with you! I'm… I'm taking you… in!"

I see his shadowy figure trying to raise himself on his elbows, blinking at where he landed, trying to get his bearings.

I see him collapse again, pressing a hand to his ribs, letting out a moan.

"Just… as soon… as… I…" he tries to say. "Can…"

Time for me to go before he decides he suddenly doesn't have any broken ribs after all, as enhanced individuals often seem to do.

Pressing my hand to my chest to feel the thumb drive undamaged, I take off in the opposite direction.

Today's not the day to help the Vulture with his mole problem.

He can handle that himself.

Could I give him a call and tell him to look for the crew member with a busted mouth, ribs, and moving gingerly for a few days?

Tell him where to find his guy partially unconscious on the roof of a mobile home trailer?

Help him to narrow down who was missing from his crew tonight, whomever might have followed him to the meeting place?

I could, but I don't.

I don't work for him, and he pissed me off. I won't help him as long as I can help it.

I'll help the Avengers if I can.

I'll help Nat, Steve.

I'll help myself, until I can't.

...

* * *

 **Reassignment - Alexander Pierce**

* * *

...

There's a small metal suitcase in front of me.

I look across my desk. "These were delivered a few days ago."

He nods. "So?"

I push it towards him. "They're for your assignment."

He scoffs. "Which ONE?"

"Operation Forty-One."

He tilts his chin. "I thought that was going to be Barnes assignment."

"I've changed my mind. I never told him about it to begin with. Knew it would… be difficult for him to comprehend."

"So he's not going to pull the trigger on this?"

"No, you will."

"Because he's in too deep?"

"I don't want to entirely trigger the Winter Soldier. Having half of one is sufficient for now. Just enough of a conscience to make him believable, but not enough of one to make him openly defy his orders."

"You think he'd defy Forty-One, though?"

"I think he would find a way, yes." I nod at the case. "The only way he would do this assignment _properly_ is if I wipe his memory. Completely. It undoes all the groundwork we've laid so far."

"So having him in Asshole-Tower is more valuable than the weapon he is?"

"The weapon he used to be. I put him there for the op, but I don't think he's well suited anymore. He's going to continue doing moderate domestic work. Intel gathering, sabotaging what he can."

He rolls his eyes. "I say wipe his brain and put him back in the ice."

"I say he is more valuable to me, currently, keeping the Avengers off Vulture's back. At least until Vulture stops _upgrading_ those damn microprocessors. It's not done till its done."

"Any word on the missing codes yet?"

"Do you think we'd be having this meeting if we did?" I sigh. The missing codes could be completely unrelated. A mishap of a technician. A low-level Shield agent making a little black-market money on the side. Without knowing - I certainly sleep less comfortably.

"So Barnes is helping with what, exactly?"

"Getting them just enough information to keep them happy," I take off my specs, polish them, slowly. "Not enough to get caught. I like him right where he is."

...

* * *

 **Going, Going, Goner -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I blame the injuries for my bad decisions, my shock for my unexpected travel plans.

I remember wearily getting on a train, I remember getting off a train. Maybe a few times. I lost count. Then I called her.

"You're alive," MJ said, dryly.

"Ha... just barely!" I had responded. "I'd like to come see you, if I can."

"Only if your coworkers don't follow you again."

"They won't, not this time."

"Can you find St. George's Hall? That's my dorm."

"NYU," I said.

I was impressed. Jealous. Going to school like this. Me never being attentive enough to ask her where she was going. I'm going to make a horrible boyfriend.

Silence.

"My roommate is gone for the week," she said.

I felt a flutter in my stomach. This could be the pain, the shock.

Or anticipation, combined with my growing infatuation, first love. The fear of losing her if I can't keep my shit together and make it out of this alive.

The desire to be near her, to finish what we tried to start at the coffee shop.

This is how I find myself outside of her dorm on Clark street in the pouring down rain like every bad cliche romantic movie ever.

She lets me in with her key card, looks at my appearance in shock.

"Jesus Henry Christ," she says. "What… happened… to you?"

"I got beat up," I answer honestly.

Nothing happens.

And then...

She takes my hand, and…

 _Please kiss me,_ I think cheekily. _This lighting is perfect._

She leads me to the elevator instead. She says nothing when she takes me to her floor, leads me to her dorm room. Other students are in bed already, some further down the hall, talking and laughing. There's posters for a spring dance.

Sign up sheets for end of the year activities.

I can't believe it's almost summer break and the end of her first year of college.

It seems like not that long ago I was strutting across the stage at Midtown, accepting my diploma. Enjoying one weekend of graduation bliss with Aunt May and Ned, and then trucking right back to D.C. to continue my Shield classes. Ned got early admission to CIT, and moved soon after.

It feels like a millennia ago.

Her dorm has two twin beds, a window, and matching dressers on either side. Looks like every college dorm room in every movie ever.

One side is decorated in pink and white. There's a poster for FRIENDS and colorful mugs lining a shelf. Even the textbooks have color-coordinated covers in pastel. The corkboard is overly filled with printed instagram photos on polaroids.

Michelle's side of the room is surprisingly decorated, but with the less obvious. The poster is the periodic table. There's strips of sage green paper on her corkboard with facts and reminders written across them in sharpie. Her textbooks are uncovered and lying on every surface - the desk, the bed, the shelf. There's a tiny skeleton display with labeled bones wearing a lab coat and holding a mug that holds an array of rainbow gel pens.

It looks like she brought an extensive book collection from home, all books on philosophy, US history, classic literature like Crime and Punishment and Great Expectations.

Index cards, too. Index cards everywhere.

"My roommate calls me Elphaba," MJ says sullenly, seeing the room through my eyes.

"I don't know what that means," I admit.

She clears a space on her bed. "Can you sit?"

I do as she asks.

She opens the mini fridge below the window and pulls out an ice pack from the upper freezer drawer, handing it wordlessly to me.

I slap it a little too hard against my own chin. Then she takes a large thermal quilt folded up at the foot of her bed, lets it fall open, and wraps it around my shoulders like a towel. She spends some time tucking it in.

I hear a clock ticking. Her roommate has an old fashioned alarm clock painted white with little golden bells on top.

She digs into a blue duffel bag in her closet, pulling out a random assortment of things that, I'm guessing, nursing students end up with somehow. There's a stethoscope, an IV line, a bag of syringes, a set of blue scrubs, and a small first aid kit.

Seems like I'm always needing a patching up.

No offense to Mr. Stark, but I'd much rather get patched up by MJ.

But it's not as bad, surprisingly, as the bottle incident. She merely uses some gauze to wipe up the blood from cuts and abrasions, some of them re-opened.

"Hey MJ," I say softly, looking up into her eyes as she dabs at my skin. When her hand touches my face, it makes me feel feverish.

"Don't talk while I'm working," she says.

"Oh. Right."

After another moment, she tapes down a few bandages to my face. Admires her work, nodding once.

"Passable," she says.

"Can I talk now?"

She gestures as if to say, _be my guest._

"Are you mad?" I ask.

"If I don't know what the fuck is going on with you, how can I be mad?" she doesn't sit next to me on the bed, she paces the length of the room. "When you disappeared after coffee I fully expected to see your face on the news because you had gotten murdered."

"I'm so sorry…"

"And then you show up looking like this? You haven't SEEN yourself, have you?"

"No…"

"Well, you look better now, anyway."

I pause, and then give her a rogue smile. "Oh yeah? Really?"

"That wasn't me trying to flirt, Peter..." she finally stops, throwing her arms over her chest defensively. "What if you're not okay?" she asks me, "I'm not here just to play patch-up. I can, but maybe that doesn't fix the problem. What are you doing? Running drugs? Burglarizing houses? Joining a cult?"

"None of those things."

"What if you just disappear sometime, hm?" she asks. "Th' fuck am I supposed to tell Ned when he shows up for your funeral? Huh?"

I can't imagine what she would tell Ned...

"Don't act like you're seriously considering what I should tell Ned if you die," she responds heatedly. "That is the wrong reaction. You should be falling over yourself to make promises right now that there's nothing to worry about."

I look down into the ice pack. "I can't really do that. It wouldn't be honest."

"You've never really been an honest person to begin with. That's what confuses me about you, Peter Parker. You are trustworthy but you can't tell the goddamn truth to save your life."

"I can't tell the truth and still save lives," I respond heatedly, and then shut it down quickly. "MJ, I'm sorry. Really. I'm already saying too much!"

"So you save lives with this job? But yours is just collateral."

I cut her off before she can think the worst, "This job… I'm quitting. I can't tell you how and why now, but I'll be able to. This time next week."

"Next week, huh?" she responds mockingly. "This time next week all your troubles are over and you're working a normal freaking job like the rest of us?"

"Yeah, basically," I say.

She is confused now. "And you still can't say what it is. Even if you are quitting."

"Yup."

She sits down beside me on the bed. "If I guess what it is, can you tell me?"

"Still no."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because, I, can't," I say sternly. My ribs give a twinge. "Ow…"

"Agent of Shield," she says suddenly. "It's the only thing that makes sense. I knew that arrest was a set up, and you took all the Shield classes right before that. You're a Shield agent in training."

It's not… right, but it's far from being wrong.

"I can't…" I start.

"You can't confirm, I know, I know," she sighs. "How close am I to being right?"

"Well… it's… not that."

"It was worth a shot." She sighs. "If I'm not just making up the wrong shit and seeing signs that aren't really there. Plenty of people take advanced classes and programs and still end up imprisoned, killed, or shot off planet without being a secret agent. And the more I say it the stupider it sounds."

"You're not stupid," I lay my hand on her arm. "I will tell you something. I absolutely should not and it's really really stupid for me to do it but I …" I pause.

"Don't leave me hanging now."

"I can't tell you why. Or what for. Or anything else. But…"

"Jesus. Okay? Yes?"

"Next week when this job is over... I will be signing the Accords."

Tick, tock.

Her eyes widen, and she leaps off the bed. "I FUCKING KNEW IT!" she points at me, and a huge, genuine, absolutely _delighted_ smile lights up her entire disposition.

I've never seen her smile so _hard_ before.

"Wait!" I exclaim, laughing confusedly, relief flooding me. "Knew WHAT?"

"No, no, no, you keep your secrets, I'll keep mine," she points at me accusingly again, wagging it back and forth as if to say, _oh, you devil, you._

"I just fucking knew it, that's all," she straightens her hoodie, grinning elfish-like, sitting down beside me on the bed. "That's it, I'm good now. You don't have to tell me anything else. You're fine. I won't bother you anymore. I can die happy."

Not funny.

"Uh," I say instead, laughing awkwardly. "Glad it… makes you happy?"

She is still shaking her head, talking more to herself than me. "I… fucking… knew it."

"Knew what exactly?" I ask. She smiles, doesn't answer.

Tick, tock.

"But you didn't come here just because you wanted to tell me that?" she adds. "You needed bandaids. You weren't planning on telling me anything at all, were you?"

"I really… really shouldn't have said anything. It's…"

"Are you going to say _dangerous_ again?"

"Maybe."

"Can you tell me what happened after you left the coffee shop?"

I shake my head and look away.

"If you hadn't left the coffee shop…" she tries, very carefully, testing the words as if worried they'll scare me off. "What do you think would've happened?"

"I probably would've finished kissing you," I mumble.

She doesn't answer. That's not what she meant. She wanted to know if my obsessive 'co-workers' would have busted through the door and revealed all.

"Sorry I was so… abrupt?" I continue. "Not how I imagined that would go. At all!"

She toys with the edge of the sheet on her bed. "Yeah, me either."

I put the ice pack down on the floor.

Tick, tock.

"I came here tonight because I was, uh, really shaken up, and I wanted to see you," I circle back to her earlier question. I don't want her to think I'm avoiding every question she ever asks. "I know you probably think I'm some sort of crazy stalker dude."

"You seem just a little obsessive," she teases.

"Actually, I am," I joke back. "I'm… I'm just a nerd. I can't help it. I find something that I like and then I can't stop thinking about it."

"You've come a long way from when it was equations and LEGOs," she gives my cheek a very gentle, condescending pat. "Now, you actually like people."

Before she can pull her hand away, I reach up and catch it in my own. Holding it against my cheek, if for no other reason that to prove to myself that she is actually here.

"I have to say," she says so softly, and only having superior hearing is how I can catch it. "I… I have to say your vulnerability right now is kinda freaking me out."

I nod into her palm. She doesn't try to pull her hand away. I can feel the tiniest, microscopic hairs as her thumb gently moves across my cheek. Brushing under my eye. Drifting down to the top of my lips.

"So do you want to, like, try and pick up where we left off, or something?" she asks in a hoarse whisper.

"If you're okay with that," I say.

"More than okay," she says. I see her gulp… with nervousness?

MJ, nervous? Doesn't seem right.

For as much as she is so cavalier, so _devil-may-care_ , she is being just as vulnerable as I am. We're both afraid of what happens if we… if we touch… being so physically close with someone now, when it's romantic, new, and scary, and how much more painful that would make breaking up later… because there's no way she would be happy with a guy like me long term. She's too smart, goal-driven…

"You're already overthinking this," she says. I watch her chest rise and fall, the breath coming and going just a little too fast. Her hand leaves my own, lazily hangs off my shoulder, fingers barely hinting at touching the back of my neck.

"Right, right," I stutter, and I suddenly panic about where to put my hands. One manages to find its way to her face, pushing her curls back from her eyes. Tilting her face towards me, her breath is warm in my mouth. She kisses me.

Electricity runs through my heart, lungs, down into my stomach. I feel my gut coil with anticipation and fear at messing it up.

I'm obsessing over little details now. How perfectly symmetrical her parting lips are. She seems to know what she's doing, so I follow suit, and when her tongue…

I feel a jolt, like getting punched in the stomach, except in a good way.

Focus on other details, I think, a shiver rushing down my spine. I move one hand around her back, pulling her closer to me. My fingers tracing her spine like they are piano keys, and I am trying to play her a lullaby.

Both of her hands are in the blanket she had wrapped around me, one curling into my hair, the other pressing at my chest, my abs, up my ribs, and down my arm.

I suck in a breath. " _Ow."_

"I'm sorry," she says.

"It's okay!" I squeak. "I'm just… really sore."

Abruptly, she pulls back, our lips coming apart with a sucking protest, as if they had been fused together.

"Oh, no," I whisper in horror, "I'm so sorry. What did I do? Did I do something wrong?"

"Shut up," she chuckles darkly. She gives my shoe a little kick. "Take those off."

And then she removes her sweatshirt. She's wearing a simple gray tank top underneath, loose fitting, open on the sides. Some sort of strapless bra-thing underneath. I don't know what to call those things.

I'm mesmerized by her sweatshirt dropping to the floor.

"Oh," I choke. "Yeah." I shrug out of my jacket and blanket, pushing my heel with the toe of one shoot, kicking off one sneaker, and then the other.

She pats the bed. "Come here."

I'm already on the bed. But she wants me closer.

I curl one leg under me, leaving the other dangling.

This time, one arm curls under mine, slipping up the back of my T-shirt, the other already in my hair, firing off every nerve-ending in my scalp. My whole abdomen seems to radiate with warmth. The fever increases. Everywhere we touch, both ice and fire at the same time.

I wonder if she feels like she's burning up with chills too.

I don't even realize she's leaning back until I feel chilled, a space between our chests where there was not one before. As she slowly relaxes, even without realizing it, she's falling further and further into the bed.

And I'm falling with her.

She giggles again, and lays back fully. I honestly don't know why I suddenly think of that weird scene of Nala from the Lion King where she's looking up at Simba from the grass.

 _Oh, geeze, why am I thinking of animated animal musicals right now?_

I need to _not_ be a nerd right now. Any time but this.

She's slender and some foolish part of me is afraid of crushing her. But I don't, of course. But I'm hyperly over-actively aware of her legs now.

I lean into her mouth, this time initiating the testing of my tongue at her edges. Our kisses are losing speed now, purposefully, savoring every corner. Tilting from side to side, finding where we can fit together.

More places than not, I discover. I trail my lips down her chin, neck. Then I have to actually stop and catch my breath.

"I've never done this before," I whisper into her collarbone. She presses her hand firmly on my lower back. "Ow," I mutter again.

"Never made out with someone like this before?" she clarifies.

"Never… kissed… before."

"You're joking." She presses gently on my chest so that I have to lift up, making eye contact. "You've never… had your first kiss?"

"Oh, well, I guess…" I pause. "I, uh, maybe it's not my first time… if… does kissing you at the coffee shop count?"

"We barely kissed at the coffee shop?!" she exclaims. "And you're telling me that was your first kiss?"

"I know, it's embarrassing."

"It's actually sorta effing cute," she snickers. "You definitely improve with practice."

"Should we keep practicing?" I ask with a grin.

"Uh. Yes."

I'm still bewildered that not minutes ago I was walking down the cold city street, lonelier than ever, questioning whether or not it was a good idea to come see her.

She tugs my shirt up and over my head, throwing it to the floor.

"Oh Jesus, Peter," she says, sitting up.

"What?" I sit back, confused.

"You really got the shit beat out of you," she whispers in horror. Those electric fingers tracing the edges of darkening bruises on my abdomen. My ribs, chest, stomach. Dark red bruises and broken blood vessels, turning purple and blue. I look like a human plum.

Pain aside, I love the way her gentle fingers roam around indignantly, finding new bruises and making disapproving sounds as she goes.

"Let me see your back," she says sternly.

I shift slightly, and she lets out a breath. "Bad here too," she says. "Alright. Pause." The bed squeaks as she gets up. She snatches the ice pack off the ground and lays it gently on my ribs. "Hold that," she commands.

I do as she says as rummages through her desk drawer, finds a bottle of over-the-counter pain relievers, and swipes her water bottle off her desk. I slip the edge of the blanket between my hand and the ice pack because all instinct is blaring at me to maybe _not_ have freezing-cold hands right now. Otherwise she might not want me to touch her with them.

"Before we uh… make out… er, go any further," she says. "You should take two of these."

I hate to tell her that two will do not much of anything. I have powers. It takes maybe eight of them to feel it, a dangerous number for normal people.

But I like the way she said _further._

I take two pain relievers.

"There," she says, satisfied. "Two pills. Now you _have_ to call me in the morning."

I blink. "Did you just make doctor-joke and a one-night-stand joke all in one?"

She smiles wickedly. "You don't hold all the cards on bad jokes."

"It wasn't bad at all. I loved it!" I squeak just a little too excitedly. "I like it when you're funny."

She sits back on the bed next to me. Staring at me.

"Um," I giggle. "Hi."

 _Oh my god, stop giggling._

"How does the ice feel?" she asks.

I let it drop to the mattress. "Pills are working already! Don't need it!"

She laughs. "Quick healer, huh?" Sarcasm.

I lean forward again. "One of my many talents." I sink into her, my forehead pressed against hers.

Taking her hand into my own, I slide my fingers between hers. Clasping her hand tight the way boyfriends ought to hold girlfriend's hands.

I'm fascinated right now that I'm not hallucinating this whole thing, that we're only partially clothed in her dorm room, the increasing tension. And no chances of being interrupted, by roommate, or by a phone I turned off.

"I've never held your hand before," I whisper.

"Maybe we can get to that later," she says sarcastically.

I kiss the back of her hand. "If there's a checklist, we're doing it out of order."

She looks at our entwined fingers, waves them back and forth for a moment, and then reflects my movement, kissing the back of my hand, too, with a snicker.

"I've never been one for following the mainstream rules," she says.

I laugh. "Um," I say, "If you want to stop…"

"Uh, no? Not really? And by not really I mean not at all?" Her eyebrows furrow. "Do you?"

I shake my head, trying not to grin. "Definitely not. But. I just want, to make sure, it's important, you know… to ask… to keep asking. We'll stop when you want to."

"You're one in a million, Peter Parker."

"Thanks. I think. You too. Maybe a billion."

I renew my lips against hers. Searching for the places she hides, tasting every one. I pull back and look into her eyes. Looking for hints that she's just messing with me.

"I'm falling for you, MJ," I confess in the smallest whisper.

"I know," she admits smoothly. I… I think she just quoted the Empire Strikes Back.

Oh, boy. I'm a goner.

I'm in love and I am an absolute goner.

…

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Reviewer Replies**

* * *

DaWriter06: Oh, be careful what you wish for my friend ;) ;) ;) Thanks for reading as always!

Starnight5: Hope you liked the Peter/MJ time I indulged in, finally... they deserve a little happiness, right? :) Thanks so much for your review!

curry-llama: You are becoming literally one of the most interesting readers I've ever had with your little anecdotes lol. You're an ANIMATOR?! So cool?! And ten hour DAYS! That sucks so bad. Your boss should appreciate you more! Just pretend you're Peter working for Adrian Toomes ;) ;) Anyway, thank you as always for reading. Your reviews are a treasure.

LooneyLovegood1981: Haha, don't feel bad for forgetting Bucky, he's a bit of a lost soul and he would do well with some major alone time and a lot of healthier choices. But alas, he is both a sympathetic anti-hero AND (one of) our primary villains. There's a lot more of him coming up! Thanks as always for your consistent and lovely reviews!

Tightpants182: Your review made me laugh so hard, I immediately sent it over to QueenofCrystallopia. Your reviews are the kinds we live for - engaging with and reacting to what we're writing XD Thank you so much as always dear reader

* * *

 **NEXT TIME:** Adrian Toomes is a little upset. Wade Wilson is a little upset. Bucky is a little upset. Natasha? Natasha's great. She's set a timer on the faux-relationship. Endgame? Coming right up! (that wasn't even an Infinity War quip. I meant a literal endgame. For TashaXBucky.


	15. When Rats Emerge

_Dear Readers,_

 _Fasten your seatbelts my dears, this is our last chapter of calm conversations before everything goes to shit. You think I am kidding but I'm not. The next chapter will have plenty of shocking developments (and murder) and then it will only get worse. Consider this first warning of MANY._

 _-Pip_

* * *

 **Warnings: Lots of cursing, dear readers. I'm terribly sorry. Deadpool isn't, though. Deadpool is sitting delightedly by my bed right now, nodding eagerly.**

 **Deadpool: Say it.**

 **Me: I don't want to say it.**

 **Deadpool: Say it!**

 **Me: NO!**

 **Deadpool: You made the joke first. Don't play innocent with me. You're the dirty mind here.**

 **Me: No longer applicable.**

 **Deadpool: Bitch, please.**

 **Me: OK! Okay. Fine. You guys left your sixty-ninth review after the last chapter...**

 **Deadpool: EXACTLY SIXTY NINE REVIEWS. SIXTY NINE! (cackles maniacally)**

 **Me: Oi.**

 **Deadpool: Go on, make a joke about sixty-nine...**

 **Me: Actually there's 70 now.**

 **Deadpool: WHAT?!**

 **Me: Seventy. Sorry. We missed our window. Go back to sleep.**

 **Deadpool: Sleep? I wasn't sleeping.**

 **Me: Can you hand me that washcloth?**

 **Deadpool: Okay, here.**

 **Me: Does it smell like tequila to you?**

 **Deadpool: (sniffs) No, it kind of smells like... (crashes to the floor out of the chair)**

 **Me: Chloroform? That's correct. (opens laptop and types) WARNING... language. Kissing. More language. Rude statements from Deadpool.**

 **Deadpool: (snores)**

 **...**

* * *

...

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN -** **When Rats Emerge**

...

* * *

 **Varmints - _Adrian Toomes_**

* * *

...

No word from Barnes yet on the thumb drive I gave him. A thumb drive given at his request, I should add. I'm sure he found other things he enjoyed doing other than looking over one of Mason's talentless spreadsheets.

I wonder about my crew. Who among them are loyal.

Parker's the most likely leak. Surprisingly, I like the kid, so I would consider the possibility that he's just not careful enough with our information. He doesn't come across as being quite bright enough to manage being an undercover on purpose. All book smarts but no street smarts. The kid shakes if we run a red light.

No, no, if anything, he's probably guilty of posting our shit to a twitter account that the Avengers peruse for shits and giggles. I don't think he has the capacity to actively work long term as a secret agent.

Other than some Shield classes, he doesn't have the experience. I'd gamble on him more likely to buy into Hydra's propaganda with the white supremacists hiding in their population than being a lapdog for Captain Spangles. Too much self righteousness for his own good, it may just turn into the type of ethnic cleansing superiority that Hydra is so fond of.

Him aside, there are others on the team to consider.

Aaron Davis is too fucking chill to be the informant. He wouldn't recognize the opportunity to be one even if they offered him a get-out-of-jail-card and held a giant space hammer that casts lightning bolts like a Zeus on steroids.

Schultz? Schultz would break my heart if he were the rat. I would think we're not just business partners, more like brothers. We started this together before the Vulture. Before Stark. When we were just a start-up LLC with a bulldozer.

Jackson Brice wouldn't surprise me one fucking bit. He'd do anything for a raise. Hell, he'd sell out his own mother if he thought he could make a couple of bucks. All it would take is Stark and his checkbook and Brice would give him anything he wanted.

They are my core group.

I got plenty of other guys that are so dumb, transparent, or otherwise too fucked up to even think about the Avengers. Marcus, Quinn, Alec… Kingston, maybe even someone not on the crew. Elliott, Murphy, Jo… they're all suspects.

Every last one of them.

I'm sitting in Jo's Diner at six o'clock in the morning when I hear Peter Parker enter the door on the diner side. He's moving sort of slowly, like he got beat up recently. For once it was not a beating that I was privy to nor partially responsible for.

I take a sip of my brandy. I'm sketching an upgrade to the wings on graph paper. A lining, something soft, polymer. So that the damn feathers don't clink together like chainmail when I fly.

Mason ain't the only one around here with design talent. Sometimes I create things, too. Not destroy them. It's the quiet moments like this when I miss my daughter. She loved to draw when she was little.

Peter goes to the bar, looks over, glances around for Jo.

"Jo ain't in yet," I say without looking up.

"Oh," Peter walks with a sore shuffle over to the booth where I sit, the sound of his feet on the carpet putting my teeth on edge.

"Do you smell a rat?" I ask.

He glances around the restaurant. "Uh… no?"

I look at him. He's got the red tape marks of hastily-removed bandages on his face, cuts growing old and bruises turning yellow with age.

"Who beat you up?"

He shakes his head, giggling. "I had to fight an old lady for a can of cranberry sauce. Looks worse than it is."

"I need to know you're not going to go back to prison for starting fights in a supermarket," I say smoothly, continuing my sketching. I know he's joking about the old woman, but I am not in the mood for games.

"Definitely not going back to prison."

"So, dumbass comments aside, tell me whatever-this-is, its fucking handled. I don't want to chase after your playground bullies like I did with the Russo brothers to keep a price off your head."

"It's more than handled, you don't have to worry about it at all."

"So sit down already."

He thumps into the booth.

"Where were you last night?" I ask.

He giggles, and I glance up. Now is not a time to be funny. "I told everyone to stay in the diner while Mason made his delivery," I say evenly.

"I didn't realize it was mandatory," Peter says.

"Why the hell you so smiley this morning?"

"I, uh, had… a date."

"A date," I repeat. "You got a girlfriend?"

"Well. No," Peter looks pained to admit it. "It was just…"

"What's so fucking important you couldn't stay when I told you to?"

"Sorry, you want to hear about my, uh, getting laid?" Peter looks like he's never said the phrase getting laid before in his life. Either he's lying or it was literally his first time.

I shake my head and chuckle. "Spare me the details. You know having a girlfriend complicates things when you work here. I ought to know. I lost my wife."

Peter shakes his head fiercely. "It was a one time thing."

"Oophh," I chuckle. "I didn't pin you down as the type. But considering all your other pleasant anxieties, it makes sense. "

"You'll never hear about her again, trust me one that." Peter assures me. "But… why does it matter if I was there or not? Did I miss something important?"

"Important, important," I mutter. "You know I've begun to suspect… there is a rat in my crew."

Peter's eyes get big, and he leans forward. "Like when the CIA hijacked our deal with Mac? Do you think maybe…"

"It's not the CIA," I roll my eyes.

"What if they…"

"It's not the fucking CIA."

"...okay."

"It's usually something like… an old friend in the business, an ex-wife… maybe even a girlfriend… that's what brings you down in this business. People talking to other people."

"I guess that leaves me out, then," Peter sighs. "As the girlfriend thing isn't going to happen. Unfortunately. But necessary."

I laugh at him. "Love them and leave them."

"Definitely not looking for something serious," Peter adds.

I cut off my own laughter abruptly, so I can watch his reaction. "I could just kill everyone that works for me," I suggest. "Start with a clean slate."

"I would say better safe than sorry," Peter replies, brow furrowed as if frustrated with me, but not worried. "Except that I currently work for you and I don't want to die."

I nod. That's understandable, anyway. "Back when I first started, it was just Schultz, Randy, Jackson, and Mason. Four guys I could trust with my life. Now it's a big company. Too many players." I give him a look. "Maybe that freaky anxiety of yours has finally worn you down. Made you snap. Made you go telling my shit to the Avengers."

Peter rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes at me, like I'm his dad and I just told him to quit playing video games and go to bed.

"Yeah, you know what? Fine. Accuse me of anything you want," Peter says, fiddling with the utensils sitting on the paper napkin. "It seems like after all this time, you still don't trust me."

"Trust is earned, Pedro."

"I thought I've earned it. You gave me a chance to walk away before, at the lobster joint, but I didn't. I told you I'd be loyal, and I've been loyal. If you suspect me once, fine. Everyone looks suspicious when they first get started. Accuse me twice, I quit. If you…"

He crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in the booth, gives me a steely, focused gaze. "If you tried the whole clean slate thing, it wouldn't matter if you were my boss, or not. I'd fight. If it came down to you and me, I would kill you like anyone else."

"But you've never killed anyone before," I remind him icily.

"Self defense doesn't count, right?" Peter says. I can't honestly tell if he believes this or not.

I pull the 9mm handgun resting on my lap and brace my elbow on the table, pointing the barrel towards Peter's forehead. It's got no bells, no whistles. Just an ordinary piece of hardware I am never without.

Peter gulps, his eyes widening. He had no idea I had this on me when he sat down.

"You got something you want to try again, Parker?" I ask.

"Look, boss," he says carefully, testing each syllable. "You have to flush out a rat? Fine. Do what you have to do. But if I could offer a suggestion, maybe don't shoot the guy in the head who is on your side. That leaves one less person between you, and someone who wants your business to fail. Maybe even wants you dead. You know I'd help protect all of this if I needed to."

I lift the gun. He didn't hesitate to try and save my ass during the Mac debacle. So far he's done everything I've asked him to. Till last night.

"The point I need to make to you here, tonight is," I say, "When I fucking tell people to stay in the diner while Mason makes his delivery, you fucking stay in the diner."

"Are you accusing me, or just mad at me?" Peter asks. "Because if you want to just go ahead and ask me, I'll tell you the truth!" He leans forward, even though I have not put the gun away. "I'm not the informant. Okay? I am NOT the informant. I don't want to go back to prison, I want to live quietly away from all that. Putting YOU at risk would put ME at risk. I base most of what I do on the fact that I believe you're pretty good at what YOU do."

"If you found out who the informant was," I say, tucking the gun back into my jeans. "Would you tell me?"

"Sure. Sure I'd tell you. Even risking looking like a tattle tale, or you, accusing me of trying to point your suspicions elsewhere. I'd still tell you."

"Nice to know you're so fucking dedicated," I say sarcastically.

"Seems that way, if you think that's something I'd find out," he answers. "But the thing is I don't think I could possibly, ever, find out who it is. I'm not good at puzzles unless it's a trigonometry problem."

I smirk. "How convenient for you."

I don't want it to be Parker. This conversation is not help my suspicions at all. In fact, it's making me even more confused.

I lift my chin at him. "If you were any good at puzzles… how would you try to find a rat?"

"I'd ask myself questions only I can answer," Peter shrugs. "You have history. You've known them for years. Who have you known long enough to be disgruntled?"

"Disgruntled?"

"Who… who in this group has worked here long enough to think that it's their turn? Their turn for more than their share? Someone who sees what you do and thinks they can do it better?"

"The only one who can do what I do is me," I reply. "Look what happened to the Russo brothers. Vanchat. Klaue." I push my pen across the paper, drawing an unnecessary line through my design. "Do you want to be me someday?"

"To be honest with you, I don't think I could be you, ever," Peter shrugs. "I don't have what it takes. Maybe I'd want to be but never could and never would. I'm not cut out to be a boss like you. I'm too fucking nervous all the time. I'm a follower. Always will be."

"Heavy lies the crown."

"Yeah."

The door opens and Jackson comes walking in like he couldn't be bothered to be here at all. The man is sauntering like he's the goddamn boss.

"Look." I fold up the paper. Watching Peter watch the paper. "I've got a shipment coming in at the harbor from the surplus of the Centipede project. Jackson will give you the rundown."

I get up from the booth and slap Peter's chest with Coach-like encouragement. "And eat something, for Chrissake. You look like a weed."

Jackson passes me with a nod as I leave, sits down at the booth with Peter.

"We got a new job coming up at the harbor," Jackson says quietly. I pretend to slam the door of Jo's Diner, but I don't leave.

"Yeah, okay," Peter says. "Cool."

I turn and walk quietly back to the booth, visible only to Jackson, pressing a finger to my lips. Jackson blinks and continues.

"Uh… we got this tech coming in that they used for bionic implants," Jackson says, "You know, like for those guys with the laser eyes…"

I slowly reach my arm down in front of Peter's face, sliding my folded paper design off the table. He flinches, but his reaction is a few seconds slow.

"Scuse me," I hiss. "Forgot my paper."

"Okay," Peter says tightly.

I pat his shoulder again roughly. "Eat something."

I tuck the paper in my pocket and tune out of the sounds of Jackson resuming his job orientation, heading for the exit.

I know if word gets out about my new wing design, Parker's my rat.

The next morning, I call up Barnes.

"You need to stop calling me," he says.

"Did you hear anything from Spangles and Deadpool about new wing designs?" I ask.

"There's new designs…?" he asks confusedly.

"You didn't have any new info from the informant."

"Nothing. He's been quiet. No news from him."

"Nothing about new wings."

"No, like I said," he replies. "Nothing at ALL."

"You're absolutely fucking positive?"

"Trust me. There's been no news. I've been with Rogers all day. And nothing about new designs. What exactly is that?"

"Catch you later," I shut down the call and look at Schultz. "It ain't Parker."

Schultz shakes his head. "Amazing."

"Thank god for Peter Parker," I heave a deep breath. I didn't even realize how much I expected it, but hoped that it wasn't him. He's got too much fucking potential to disappoint me now.

"It seems unlikely but… that's proof, right there," Schultz says. "He just seemed like he'd be the easiest to snap, you know? If they promised him a life of justice and forgiveness after prison, seems like something he'd snatch up."

"For whatever reason," I say, "His low self esteem is probably keeping him on the side of weapons manufacturing and sales. Probably doesn't think he deserves the better life - hence, he sticks with what he knows." I point at my chest. "That's us. We're good."

"I'm fucking relieved," Schultz sighs. "I like the kid. I would hate to be the one to put a bullet in his head."

I nod in agreement. It's not recommended to get attached, but I said it before. It's like having a dog. Energetic, young, doesn't call you out on all your faults.

Obedient, and thankfully, not feeding us out to the action-figures across the river.

...

* * *

 **Snitches Get Stitches - _Wade Wilson_**

* * *

...

Barnes is staring at his phone in the hall, CALL ENDED flashing thrice on the screen before disappearing. He looks peeved, but stores it away.

He turns to walk in my direction, slowing when he notices I'm already standing there.

"Good mooooorning Vietnam," I greet him.

"Morning, Wade," he says neutrally. He notices I'm giving him an appraising expression. "Something you'd like to ask me?"

"I make it my job to sniff out snitches," I say, stepping close to his face. "I admit, I'm getting fucking tired of watching you skulk around this place. And you don't smell great, either."

"We're working on the same side," he responds tiredly.

"Sure, but for some reason, you're still asking for my undercover agent every other god damn day. You're like a snooze alarm I just can't shake."

"If you share your intel, we can take Hydra down faster."

"Listen, fucknugget, taking down Hydra is not in your job description. You still need to find those microprocessors."

"Vulture didn't sell those microprocessors to Ulysses Klaue, the most likely candidate. He killed him instead. So where do you think it's going to go?" He braces himself like I'm a school bully and he's afraid for his milk money. "He's probably upgrading it like he does with all the tech he steals, and then he's going to sell it to Hydra."

"Excellent guess, remind me to find some goldfish crackers to reward you," I respond, clapping slowly.

"I wouldn't even be on this job if Steve thought you'd be any good at it," he snaps. "Which, clearly, he doesn't. So why don't you step aside and let the professionals do the job?"

I gaze past his shoulder, not responding. Then I shake myself out of a reverie. "Sorry, you were saying? That was my - my bad, I'm sorry, that was so rude. I was actually imagining this whole conversation in my head, except you were in a tiara, and I was a crazy rich asian. Did you find everything you needed from the Redwing footage you were reviewing?"

"You spying on me?" he asks coldly.

"Pssht, you're not that special to me. I have a tendency to leave my tablet lying around. Ness and I are on sort of a DiCaprio kick right now. Can't blame a guy for looking through a window when he walks by. Why? Got something to hide?"

"Why do you think I was reviewing that footage?" he demands. "I'm looking for intel. There's too many questions. You don't give a single damn answer. Even when you can."

"You know one question I can never really quite get over, that the movie really doesn't actually answer," I reply, "What really is eating Gilbert Grape? I mean I'm sure there's something metaphorical there since the mom couldn't stop eating, but, I don't know. Up to interpretation I guess."

Barnes only stares at me. He probably understands every other word.

"Oh," and I add, "Go fuck yourself. Er, just wait on that, till I leave the hallway, at least. Thanks. Have a nice day, Barnes."

...

* * *

 **Followers - _Steve Rogers_**

* * *

...

"Good morning," I greet Bucky as he enters my office. I notice the expression on his face; he looks rattled, uncertain. "What's going on with you?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Just had a pleasant conversation with Wade Wilson."

"You know there's no such thing, right?"

"No such thing as a pleasant conversation with him, or a Wade Wilson?" Bucky smirks. "Honestly, please, please tell me that Wade Wilson is just something my mind made up to punish me."

"Unfortunately if that were true," I chuckle, "We all share in your delusions." I put the smile away, realizing he truly does look troubled. "What's up, Buck. Come on. Talk to me."

"I thought - I thought by now it'd be easier. That Stark and Wilson would trust me. Maybe I'm naive to think by this point we'd all be allies at least."

"It's the timing," I assure him. "You coming back from the dead, and the news that there's an informant planted in the Tower a few weeks later? It's unfortunate timing. They don't know you. I do."

When I had no one, I had Buck. They don't understand that. They never will.

He sits down across from me, looks around the room. "Never pegged you as much of an office guy."

"I wasn't an office guy before the Accords," I lift up a stack of folders. "Now I'm combing through official mission logs to see if there's something I missed before it gets shipped off. I miss the…" I pause. "I don't miss the war. Don't get me wrong. I miss…"

"Being active," finishes Bucky. "It's the action part. You don't have to miss the combat. But you can miss active duty. It's not a... sin against mankind, or wishing anyone harm. I feel that way too sometimes."

I pick at the corner of one of the folders. "Thanks. I needed that."

"So get back out there," Bucky urges, a grin sneaking across his face. "Just… go through the aid requests. Find something you like. Go do it."

"Shield gets all the good missions nowadays."

"So ask Rumlow for a ride-along. I am sure he'd oblige you."

"Ha," I respond.

"Get back out there," Bucky continues. "Hell, I'm… not an office guy either. Far from it. But I'll run your department for a few days if you need to go off grid. Go find some sort of robot princess that needs rescuing. I'll sit at your desk and try and look important."

I throw my head back and laugh. "Not a chance."

"I'm at least… halfway serious, Steve."

"I can't hand over my department unless I'm dead," I sigh.

"Just don't hand it over to the wrong guy," Bucky says. "We don't know who the damn informant is."

"I just heard from my guy for the first time in the past two days…"

Bucky perks up. "Two days? Is he okay?"

"He's fine. I know, I'm relieved too. He went dark just a little too long for my taste."

"What was he doing?"

I hesitate. Peter admitted disobeying me and getting the shit beat out of him, but… "Well, as far as he was able to say," I answer, "...just working quietly away."

"I mean, that's good news, I guess."

"Maybe had a clue as to whom the informant is," I sigh. "But… nothing came of it."

For some reason, and against all trust and promises of friendship and brotherhood and whatever else you call it, I do not give Bucky the whole story.

Peter had told me that whomever the informant was, he kicked his ass - that they were equally matched in stretch, speed, agility - but the informant was more experienced.

The implications of this are huge, of course.

Spider-Man got his ass kicked by someone planted here at the Tower.

That means the informant has abilities too. Is likely enhanced… very enhanced. It eliminates all the technicians, ground and house crews. Administrative. Someone on the middle-tier level as a trainee, or even… even above that.

Someone in my own circle, maybe.

I can't stand the thought of it.

So I don't say anything at all.

"Did he get any description of him?" Bucky pushes. "Anything that could help us find out who it is."

"Unfortunately the description fits about eighty percent of the people here," I sigh. "White. Male. Dark hair. Kept his face hidden, black clothing. If I kicked everyone out that looked like that, it helps no one. It sounds like half the guys training with Falcon every damn day in the gym."

Bucky leans back in his chair thoughtfully. "I want to find out who the informant is. I want to find those microprocessors. I want your guy out of the Vulture's crew safe and sound when it's all over. But I feel like I'm running into brick walls."

"Let the microprocessor sale be for now," I say. "I know you're on top of it and ready as soon as the Vulture lets it slip when the REAL sale is taking place. Then we will make it the top priority. Right now… look for his informant. I don't… I don't know which poses the most danger to us right now. All I can think is; follow the Vulture. And you'll find his rat."

Bucky gives me a weird look. "It sounds too simple when you put it like that. But yeah. I will. Thanks."

"Just be careful out there."

"Join me."

"Can't," I shake my head with a chuckle.

"Too important? Or too old?"

I laugh. "Too busy!"

...

* * *

 **Is This a Break Up - _Natasha Romanoff_**

* * *

...

I lower my gym bag from my shoulder and watch Barnes on the phone.

"I know it sounds absolutely psychotic," he's saying agitatedly, pacing the green space on the first floor near the elevators. "But Steve tasked me to do this right, so we're doing it right."

A pause.

"Because I have to go outside of the Tower, Rumlow. To make sure we don't compromise anyone's safety. Yes, I want you to surveil him. Yes, use your team if you must. Keep it small, keep it contained, report only - AND ONLY - back to me. Don't you think I want to give Steve the good news? I know it won't sound good at first, but we have to eliminate all possibilities."

He glances over at me, gives me a sad smile.

"Starting yesterday, Rumlow," and then he hangs up the phone. "Hi," he says to me, walking with purposeful strides over to me. "You are… an exquisite sight for tired eyes." He deftly takes me in his arms and kisses me without shyness.

I kiss him back. I'd be lying if I said I didn't care for him now - not romantically, but as a friend. A friend of a friend who may be in desperate need of saving. Maybe from himself, if any of my wild and ludicrous theories are even remotely correct.

"That sounded… intense," I comment lightly.

He shakes his head. "Rumlow's fighting me on a hard assignment that I've been tasked specifically to do. From Steve. I don't want to fail."

"Of course not," I say, examining each and every microexpression. A twitch in the jaw, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. Stress, or lies. Maybe somehow both, forming a strange new truth. I've been putting it off, but it's time to talk with Steve. When I get back from this trip, that will be the first thing on my list.

An honest conversation long overdue.

Hi, I'm about to be your ex-friend, because you're going to be very mad at me when you find out I've been secretly dating your best childhood friend, but I'm actually investigating him. So is that broken heart of his siding with Hydra by any chance?

He shakes himself out of his mood. "You ready?" he asks eagerly, noting the military boots and the jacket with some confusion.

"I'm actually here to kiss you goodbye for now," I say. "Got a mission in Canada."

"Oh, no, I'm so, so sorry," Barnes puts his hands gently at my hips, kissing my forehead again. "It really, really is terrible you have to go to Canada. Canada is the worst. The people are just so… nice there. So nice."

I laugh and push his hands playfully away. "I'm sure I will find the one person in Canada armed and dangerous."

"Be careful."

"I always am."

He pauses, thinking about his next words carefully. "You know… if… if we find the… if my next mission is a success, maybe, maybe I'll quit. It's got to be hard on any… new… relationship to have two Avengers in it, don't you think?"

I don't think he's being genuine, but I play along. "You would quit?" I ask slowly.

"I would," he nods. "I'd find a way to. Hell, I could go back to school. Learn… that new psychology shit. Work with Veterans like Sam Wilson does. I could do something good with that. What - what are you thinking? I can't read your face right now."

"It would be a clean slate for you," I say. "But would you be happy?"

"Happiness is relative," Bucky shrugs his shoulders. He truly believes that. "You know you… you don't have to stay with me. If we're not going to make it long term, it's gotta be you who makes the first move, gets out. I won't do it. I'll keep this up as long as you want because I don't want to - I don't want to shatter the illusion."

I keep my face entirely neutral, and then let my brows soften with concern and love. "Don't make any rash decisions," I say, stepping into his chest. He wraps his arms around my waist. I can feel a tremble in them as I rest my hands on his arms. "I would never want you to quit a job you love on account of me. And I'd be careful if I were you, because this sounds dangerously close to a break up. Or asking me to break up with you to avoid doing it yourself."

I stand on my toes and kiss his chin, cheek, lips. "There," I whisper. "One for goodbye and two for the road."

"So this won't be a goodbye for good," he whispers, laying a palm on my face. Like Bruce, his hand encompasses my cheek, but with less warmth. Less knowing me.

"Let's talk about us again when I get back," I say.

He lights up. "Okay. When you're back."

"Write me, soldier," I kiss him again, and reshoulder my bag, head for the elevators. We could go up together, make out for a bit till we reach the floor with the launch pad for the quinjet, but he doesn't follow. I'm grateful.

I'd rather think about the goodbye kisses Bruce and I shared this morning. How he made me coffee. Asked me, in an irritated tone, just how much hair I planned on shedding in the shower drain before checking to see if it stopped up.

"I felt like," he says slowly, "I felt like I just pulled Animal and the rest of Electric Mayhem out of the drain."

I had sincerely laughed so hard at his expression that it melted away his frustration, and I promised to check for hair when I'm done showering in the future.

I would rather think about Bruce, and how the health of our relationship is not based on a honeymoon stage of we never fight, but the ability to communicate. And if we must fight, then fight. And then compromise when we cannot agree. And still love each other more, even when we're irritated.

And to not take ourselves so seriously that when we are irritated, we cannot be soothed by a reminder of how much we enjoy each other's company and making each other laugh.

That… that's more than romance. Something a spy is only good at doing short-term.

It's commitment, which is that much harder, therefore worth every effort.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **Reviewer Replies**

* * *

DaWriter06: Thank you so much! I am so happy you enjoyed. Thank you for your review.

Sakura-Fiction: LOL "Peter Parkour" I love it. I feel like I used that nickname earlier from Deadpool but it's been awhile and this is such a long ass book I don't even remember lol. I haven't had the emotional strength to watch Infinity War again. Literally saw it opening night and I haven't been able to see it since. XD I am SO glad you enjoyed this chapter! More to come :) Thank you for your review.

Starnight5: Aw yay I earned a squeal :) :) :) HEHEHEHE! So GLAD! Thank you for your review.

curry-llama: You are totally not boring lol. You're awesome. and I love your reviews. The card and the cane sounds... lame?! I'm so sorry! I hope you had a very merry Christmas full of people that you love! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and happy new year! Thank you for your review.

Up-In-the-Clouds1285: OMG, anytime someone says they are "in character" it literally MAKES MY DAY. Thank you so much! I am so glad you enjoyed my chapter! Thank you for your review.

LooneyLovegood1981: I am so glad you like the chapter, I always get so squeamish writing anything romantic, and I felt like Peter would be not only a very in-tune with MJ's comfort but Aunt May would have HAMMERED how to be a good boyfriend into his brain with a lot of helpful tips and advise and instruction on consent. :) Thank you for your review.

Tightpants182: Thank you so much! You are TOO kind, my goodness. I am trying to break into the real writing world, I have two novels written and am working on editing them for starting to seek publication. :) Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and happy happy new Year! Thank you for your review.

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 **NEXT TIME:** Things are coming apart at the seams. One of the Vulture's crew is unexpectedly killed, and Peter's rescue is triggered. Pre-warning now for violence soon approaching... seriously though...


	16. The Calm

_Dear Readers,_

 _I told you last time, first warning of many. This is yet another one! Things are getting darker from this point on but I ask that you just trust me when I say that things will end differently than the movie. Please don't boycott me when terrible things happen, haha. I can't handle rejection very well apparently so I am asking in advance._ _Feel free to vent frustrations in the reviews if you must, haha. Anyway. (hides behind desk before hitting 'post') Sending lots of love and hugs to all of you in 2019. Happy New Year's Day! I am sicker than sick in bed so you get an extra tiny chapter today. haha. A breath before a plunge, if you will. The calm before the storm. (please don't hate me, I swear I will not end my story as badly as the movie!)_

 _-Pip_

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 **Warnings: Major character death in this chapter. And the next. And possibly the one after that. I've lost count. Also, the F bomb squad. I guess the violence is a given, but yes, character death scenes + violence. Just one death in this chapter, though, and it's not graphically violent. I save that for later.**

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 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN -** **The Calm**

...

* * *

 **Shocking Development -** _ **Adrian Toomes**_

* * *

...

"Hey man," Davis says casually. "Do you know how to spot a secret agent?"

"Like an Agent of Shield?" Schultz responds. "Just… running around?"

"Yeah, like," Davis sighs. "Like anyone could be anyone, right? How do you tell?"

Good to know that Davis is on door duty today, and still gets high as fuck beforehand.

"Easy," Schultz says. "If they're not paying attention to you, they're a secret agent."

"Oh yeah?" Davis says.

"See that guy across the street smoking at the bus stop?"

"Yeah?"

"Not looking at us. He's a secret agent."

I glance up from where I sit at the table at Punzi's, waiting for the newer crew to line up. Schultz stands by the open door ushering them in, pointing them to the back area by the pool room to await my instruction. Mason sits across from me tinkering with a piece of hardware he brought with him; an anti-gravity gun I am sure he believes will somehow make the transportation of goods easier.

"What about that guy?" Davis asks seriously. "The one at the stoplight?"

"Not looking at us. He's a secret agent," Schultz replies seriously. He enjoys messing with Davis when he's high just a little too much.

"Wow," drones Davis. "There's a LOT of secret agents out today."

I roll my eyes and look down at list of guys.

GREG

KINGSTON

QUINN

SHAWN

ELLERBY

MARCUS

Some of them new recruits entirely, and some of them old acquaintances in the salvage business. Only Marcus was with us at the exchange with Ulysses Klaue, so I'll be counting on him to mentor the rest on how we like to do things here.

A woman walks by on the sidewalk with a dog on a leash.

"Hey, what kinda dog is that?" Davis asks.

The woman tugs the leash closer and picks up speed, ignoring Punzi's entirely and heading for the crosswalk.

"She's a secret agent too," Davis whispers in awe.

"She's probably a fucking Avenger," Schultz whispers back.

Davis nods like someone just read him an accurate fortune cookie.

Mason makes a frustrated huffing sound and pats his pockets till he finds a screwdriver he needs. Magically procures it from the front pocket of his coveralls and tightens a screw in the hand-grips.

"Aren't you finished with that thing?" I ask tiredly.

" _Of course_ it's finished but it can always be improved," Mason exclaims. "I thought maybe you'd like to test it while it's…"

Peter and Jackson walk in through the front door.

Oh, shit. Forgot to tell Mason to not call them in today.

"Schultz, would you please?" I ask tiredly.

Schultz shuts the door over Davis's continued gasps of surprise at how many people are actually secret agents.

Jackson and Peter are both giving me expectant looks.

"Sorry for all your troubles," I say, standing up from the seat. "You can get out of here." I jerk a thumb back to the pool room. "These are the guys I'm using for tonight."

"I thought we were on for this job," Peter exclaims.

"Not anymore, you ain't," I reply.

"Fine," Peter says shortly, turning to go.

"No, no, wait, we came out this way, anyway," Jackson says, looking royally pissed. "You hardly fucking paid us anything for the time we sat in Jo's dump waiting while you took all of our personal info and handed it off to some Captain America lapdog. That was time spent on your clock and not getting fucking paid. We keep coming out here and sitting in god-damn restaurants instead of doing any fucking work."

"You know?" I say calmly. "You can get the fuck out with your attitude. I don't have time for you today."

"I don't exactly have the fucking time to answer your beck and call and play taxi-cab to this pussy either, but I do," Jackson continues. "And now I guess I'm just doing it for free? What the fuck do you think you can use me for, huh?"

I stare at him, my face calm.

The men in the back can hear the raised voices, shifting uncomfortably. Some leaning out to look.

"Hey, you know what?" I say. "I'm sick of your bullshit. That's it. You've been trying my patience for god-knows-how-long and I'm sick of it. Get out and don't come back."

"Fine, I won't," Jackson says flippantly.

"You understand I'm firing you, don't you?" I ask. "I'm not just kicking you out tonight. That's it. You're off my crew."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah yeah," Jackson mocks. "Sure sure sure. Just as simple as pulling the trump card. You think you can AFFORD to have me out there?" He slams a hand down on the end of the counter.

Peter reaches for his arm, hesitates. "C'mon, Jackson. It's not worth it. We'll get the next job. Right, boss?" he gives me a pleading look.

"You can't fucking afford me out there with every piece of shit I've got on you," Jackson snarls in my direction. "I'm a fucking liability if you let me go. So let me do the harbor job tonight and pay me some fucking cash for my trouble."

"I said," I repeat evenly. "Get _out."_

"I'll tell anyone anything they want," Jackson snaps, hitting Peter's shoulder as he turns to leave. "I'll fucking hand you over to the fucking Avengers myself."

I slide the anti-gravity gun off the table where Mason sits in wide-eyed shock at the exchange. "Sure you will," I say casually.

"Wait!" Mason yelps.

I aim and pull the trigger.

A blast of blue energy launches in a fist-sized orb, colliding into Jackson Brice's back as he reaches for the door. His body, clothes, hair - all of it goes up like molten lava. A flash of red and orange embers light up the bar, and then suddenly, there's nothing but a pile of gray ash - once in the shape of a man - crumpling to the ground in flaking, charcoal pieces.

The fuck?

There's a heap on the ground that used to be Jackson Brice. It took out everything except the zipper of his jeans and the Shocker gauntlet, which fell into the pile with brassy clunks.

 _Oops,_ s'all I can think.

I glance over at Mason. "I thought you said this was the anti-gravity gun?"

"What? No," Mason says with absolute horror. "That one is already in the truck. I was going to say earlier this was an incinerator to _test out near the water._ "

"Huh," I say, setting it down on the table. I look over at the counter. "Elliott? Mind finding us a broom, please?"

I bend over and pick up the gauntlet.

Peter is standing stock still, his eyes entirely focused on what's left of Jackson. I notice he's got gray flecks of ash all over him.

Looks like that kid in Jurassic Park when she gets sneezed on.

I tap the gauntlet on the wall, and more sandy ash comes falling out. The air is dusty, and I cough. Good riddance I guess.

Great, couldn't get him to leave the bar, so I get to inhale what's left of him instead. I shove the gauntlet into Peter's hands.

"There," I grunt. "Now you're the Shocker."

"I don't want to be the Shocker," Peter replies hoarsely, holding the gauntlet loosely.

I give him a look. "All right, fine. Give it to Schultz. He'll appreciate an upgrade. Now get out of here."

Peter turns stiffly around, and walks out of the bar like a robot.

And this is why I like Peter Parker. Obedience is required.

Elliott trots over with a reviled expression and a push broom in his hands.

...

* * *

 **You're An Avenger -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

I feel numb in my arms, my chest.

I don't know what I expected to feel when bad things happen to bad people.

For now it's just shock - but - I know…

Jackson Brice was a bad person. A very bad person.

And yet from the beginning, I've been stuck with him. Stuck beside him. Made to do horrible things next to him and pretend that I liked it, too.

But I've been pretending to be his friend for so long that some strange, tiny part of me apparently, actually, believed it.

When the shock wears off, I know I will feel something like sadness.

I stumble out of Punzi's and walk past Davis and Schultz.

"You're an Avenger," Davis says.

I turn around slowly. "What did you just say to me?"

"You ignored us," Davis chuckles. "That makes you an Avenger."

"We're guessing who secret agents are," Schultz gives me a shit-eating grin. "The ones who ignore us the most are secret agents. The worst ones are the Avengers. You didn't even notice we were here."

"Every single good-looking woman we saw is an Avenger too," Davis adds.

"Funny," I say shortly. "Listen. Guys… Boss just… up and killed Brice for talking back. Just now. In the bar."

Schultz lets out a slow whistle. "So that's what the screechy-sound was."

"He fucking what?" Davis asks slowly.

"Dude, that's cold," Schultz doesn't sound bothered or surprised at all. Sociopath. "I thought Elliott was running a vacuum cleaner."

"Y'telling me that Jackson Brice is dead?" Davis repeats, looking genuinely upset.

I walk back up to them and shove the gauntlet into Schultz's hands. "Boss says you're the Shocker now." I turn back. "I'm going to get out of here and go get some groceries and go home and get drunk. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure man, you do you," Davis says slowly. "Sorry, man… sorry…"

Schultz nods at me. "Aren't you working tonight?"

"No," I reply. "Boss is using all his new boys tonight. I guess I have the night off. You probably do, too."

Schultz and Davis glance at each other.

"Damn. I'm shocked," Davis says.

Schultz holds up the gauntlet. "I'm sure he was, too."

Davis lets out a small laugh. It gets bigger and louder the more the joke slowly starts to make sense to him.

Schultz just smirks, putting the gauntlet over his wrist.

Bastards…

Bastards bastards bastards… all of them.

I walk away quickly.

When I'm finally an appropriate mile or two away, I pull out my phone and I dial Poole. "Cap?" I ask.

"I'm here."

"He's kicked me out of the job tonight. I don't know if it's the selling of the microprocessors, or if its disinformation to try and rat one of us out as the informant. I'm fairly certain it's that. Just when I think I'm in his good graces… he does, he does something so _crazy,_ I'm just - I'm certain he's going to figure me out. He just killed one of his own guys, right in front of me. Something is loose in that brain of his. He's, he's like, totally psychotic!"

"Who did he kill?"

"Jackson Brice. Just, pointed a fancy alien-tripped out gun at him and just blasted him into nothing! Right in front of me!"

"If he's got a loose screw, we can't wait any longer," Cap replies firmly. "This is it, Pete. I'm coming to get you myself. The most important thing is - make sure you don't have a tail. Okay? Take a train, get off, take another, go backwards for all I care. Just make sure you end up at the J condominium building at the corner of Jay and Front. I'll be on the corner _furthest_ from the Dumbo plaza on the ROOF, facing the bridge. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Be there in an hour."

"I will." The shock begins to wear off, but it is replaced by sheer relief, even possibly some joy. It's my last day as an informant. I'm done. They're pulling the plug. "And Cap?" I add. "Thank you. Really."

"Son, I'm sorry," he says hesitantly, "None of this should've happened in the first place." And then he ends the call.

Confused, I look at the phone. Shouldn't have happened at all? Does he regret all of this? Does he regret me as a choice, or just regret the mission itself?

Maybe he thinks I'm a mistake. That if he could, he'd go back and pick someone else.

I shake my head and pocket the phone. It doesn't matter. None of that matters anymore. So it happened, we can move on.

I get to the rooftop, and I get my life back.

...

* * *

 **Old Friends - Bucky Barnes**

* * *

...

"Look, I'm not saying I don't want to do it," Rumlow says slowly, "But I'm under orders on my end, too. Shield is a little bit more loose on the arrival of a guilty party. A body bag is completely acceptable."

"I'm not going to tell you to kill someone," I respond angrily. "Not my call. This is not that kind of mission, so I would appreciate your discretion."

"Listen, we're a strike team. Discretion is our middle name. But what is with this surveillance shit? We're better when we go in and _handle_ a problem. Break some necks quietly."

"I am telling you is that Captain America entrusted me to find the informant in Avengers Tower. The method is up to me for now. And didn't we already have this conversation?"

"Yeah, Barnes, we did. But my question is, if Captain America himself assigned it, then why the hell are we following Captain America?"

"He asked me to do this because he knows I'm objective. He trusts me. So I will follow _every lead._ Do you hear me? EVERY LEAD. No matter how ridiculous or unlikely. Got it? Even if it seems stupid to me, and offends your delicate sensibilities."

"I didn't realize I had delicate sensibilities," Rumlow replies sarcastically.

"Look," I whisper, forming a new lie. "I have some evidence that Captain Rogers is compromised somehow. Maybe it's not on purpose, but, I have reason to believe that he's been feeding the Vulture information about our operations. Information that only the Captain was privy to has managed to make its way to the Vulture's knowledge, and Rogers has been slow in having him arrested - I'd say even purposefully hesitant. It's time we figured out why."

"Damn," Rumlow replies, and his response shocks me. "That's doesn't fucking surprise me one bit."

I need Steve followed so I can find his informant in Vulture's crew. I need a name to give to Pierce to get him off my back and leave my friends… and the people I love… alive.

It'll suck for the rat, but it won't be the first time I, technically, kicked his ass. And better for everyone if they all survive because I made Pierce happy.

I wonder which one it is. There's several white young adults in Vulture's crew… Parker, Marcus, Quinn, Alec, Jacob and Ryan. There's a few older men who have the same build, that willowy, skinny look - but I don't know if they're voices are quite high-pitched enough. I wish I had been able to pull the mask off when I had the chance.

"Surveil, damnit. Just surveil."

"Yes sir, Captain Barnes, sir." He pauses. "He doesn't live on the corner of Jay and Front in that J Condominium building, does he?"

"No." I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "No one lives there. Currently. There was a fire, it was shut down."

"So the whole place is abandoned right now? There's no reason to expect anyone else going in?"

"You tell me," I say irritably. "Are there construction workers? Building inspectors?"

"Nothing like that," Rumlow says. "I've got three of my team right there on the street. They can see everything. It still has all the DO NOT ENTER signs. Caution tape."

"So. Your point?"

"Well, Captain America is in there, or was. He's on the roof now. Waiting around."

I sit up in my chair. "What else?"

"Well, he's definitely meeting someone there. Looks guilty."

"Anyone else?"

"There's someone else that went in. My guy snuck in after him and listened for a second - he can hear him in the stairwell. He's probably going up to meet him now."

"Do you recognize him?"

"Naw. Brown hair, brown eyes?"

I sigh. Eighty-nine percent of the Vulture's crew is brown haired and brown eyed. "Didn't you get a briefing folder?"

"What you mean like, from the microprocessor briefing I was invited to a month ago? Sure. It had four pictures. The Vulture, the Shocker, the Prowler, and the Muscle. This guy is none of those four."

"Your intel is outdated," I growl. "He has at least twenty-four guys now."

"It was never _my_ intel, Barnes. You haven't shared _shit_ with Shield. Now you can see why that MIGHT be a problem."

"I'll call you back," I say.

My heart pounds. This is it. I'll send in Vulture, get a name. No one has to get their hands dirty - not me, not Rumlow.

They'll see whoever is meeting with Steve and get me the name and an ID. Then I hand it off to Pierce and…

I picture Nat's face. Alive. Steve, safe. It's worth it.

I dial the Vulture.

"Toomes," I say. "I got your informant."

"Who the fuck is it?"

"He's meeting with Captain America now on top of the J building, 100 Jay street."

"Don't know who he is?"

"No."

I hear Toomes shout off the phone. "Pack it up, boys," he shouts. "We're going rat-hunting!"

...

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...

* * *

 **Reader Replies**

Starnight5 - Hopefully this chapter was surprising to you too! And may all the chapters surprise you still further! The movie definitely goes a million ways that are unexpected, and I've tried to maintain that tension and shock value. Thanks so much for your review! Hugs!

LoonyLovegood1981 - It's so funny how Peter is a good actor and a terrible liar, so trustworthy and yet totally dishonest lol. One of the complexities that made me fall for Spider-Man comics at age... 13? 14? I'd like to think that if I was ever in this type of situation, I would draw on all my writerly skills and be a really good secret spy ;) Thanks for your review!

curry-llama - DP's lack of trust in Bucky is one of my favorite things. Deadpool is all about the bullshit and he knows that from the beginning, even if he has no proof, no evidence, not even circumstantial. And Bucky gives me so much anxiety too. I was giving myself anxiety while re-reading and proof-reading chapters for posting. XD Thanks so much for reviewing!

Tony Stank - haha you're hilarious! Love your username, btw. And yes technically the whole main portion of the book is finished - except for the epilogue! That's still in progress! That's why I'm not posting a chapter EVERY day XD I am desperately trying to finish that epilogue before it's time to post. :) I love eager readers! Don't ever stop being you! ;)

Sakura-Fiction - HAHA your review made MY day! I am so excited my updates are... so exciting! :D If violence is your jam, then this chapter is merely a taste-test for the future. I step up the violence a notch (or five) after this. I am sure the next chapter will have you... uh... shattered, hanging, and possibly hating me forever. (please don't hate me forever tho pls)

Tightpants182 - Oh, don't worry! Bucky's nose DOES actually break. Literally. So. There's a hint of what's to come, lol. You can look forward to that ;) I think you have two chapters to wait before you get to see a little Deadpool/Bucky going toe to toe. Happy new year to you too! Thank you for your review as always! :D :D


	17. Shattered

**Warning: Major character death**

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Shattered**

…

* * *

 _Peter Parker_

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...

It's the longest I've ever taken to get up a building, using the abandoned, echoing stairwell. It would have gone faster if I could just climb the walls, but it's in the middle of the day, and all sides of the building are completely exposed, in full view of the Manhattan Bridge.

And today is not the day to check and see if the elevators are still working after the bad fire they had on the eighth floor. The whole building still smells like burnt plastic and charcoal.

When I finally get to the rooftop at the final exit, I glance over the rooftop edge by the door. The view looks down on other rooftop patios, the extended spaces that belong to the penthouses only. One of them even have yards with grass. On a _roof._

Aunt May and I never had anything fancy like that. I wonder how long I'll have to wait before I can visit her. Call her. Tell her I'm okay.

Captain America waits for me on the other side. There's no fancy patio rooftops to admire here. It's a straight shot down the side of the building to the tiny cars and empty streets below, like one of those carpets with road designs on them I used to play with as a kid. Pushing sheep matchbox cars from thrift stores along the cartoon pavement, Uncle Ben telling me about the type of car I'm pretending to _vroom, vroom..._

Cap's looking out through a pair of binoculars towards the upper bay.

He doesn't look so much like Captain America, the icon. It's Steve Rogers, the Avenger, the boss, the veteran. Black pants, a gray T-shirt, brown leather jacket. Hair longer than last time I saw him, combed slightly. Old fashioned.

"Did you notice the smoke?" he asks, not turning around. "Shame about the building. You'd think they'd have anti-smoking ordinances."

"You'd think," I chuckle, approaching him slowly. I'm afraid if I get to the edge of the roof, that's going to be the part where I wake up. And I don't get to go home. And it's all just a nice dream.

"Were you followed?"

"No sir," I say, stepping up beside him.

He turns and smiles at me, shaking my hand. "Good to see you, son."

I shake it back, my stomach shaking with excitement. "You too, Cap… Captain. Sir."

Then he's holding out the binoculars to me. "Here. Take a look."

I accept them and look through, not missing the way his eyes rake over me quickly with concern when he thinks my attention is pointed elsewhere. He's noting the bruises, the scrapes, the otherwise damaged appearance from my fight with The Man In Black. Or the Dread Pirate Roberts, as I've started calling him in my head.

"Where should I look?" I ask.

"Maybe forty, forty-two, zero-nine point five degrees north, seventy-four thirty-two point one west…"

I peer above the binoculars at him, giving him a grin. "Um… layman's terms?"

He gives me a genuine smile back. "Fair enough. Eleven o'clock. Do you see that small glint of light above the black and gray skyscraper; uh, right about where FDR starts to curve around the point of the island."

I look across river where he describes, just above the buildings at the very edge of Manhattan. I wait, until something blinks a little bit in the light.

"What is that?" I ask.

"Just a small beacon. The only visible thing on the quinjet right now."

"It's invisible?" I repeat, ready to nerd out. "Er, I mean, the reflective panels are active… that's SO cool…"

"It's on it's way for us right now."

"So what's the incident?" I ask excitedly. "Are we staging an alien abduction? Is Thor here? Do I get, like, kidnapped by the good guys?"

"Not quite. We have a…"

My phone rings. The one from the Vulture.

My eyes grow big. "Ummm…"

"It's okay," he assures. "Answer it. Maybe we can milk one last thing from that bastard before you're free of him for good."

I answer the phone, my hand shaking slightly. "Peter here."

It's Aaron Davis. He _never_ calls me. "Peter, where the hell are you, man?" he shouts. I can hear traffic blaring in the background. "Everyone - everyone's been trying to call you! Bossman says we found him! We finally found the rat!"

"What... do you mean you found the rat?" I ask in horror.

I meet Steve's eyes. He gazes back, concerned, but not feeling terror like me.

"Boss is sending us to take care of him! He says he's meeting at Jay St," says Davis. "Don't get FIRED like Jackson and MEET US there! We can take care of it together! Okay? Meet us there! 240 Jay street!"

I'm already _there._ I'm already there.

I'm the rat. They've found us.

No - someone else found us.

If Aaron knew I was the "rat", he wouldn't _call me_ to ask for help.

That means someone else told the Vulture. The man in black, maybe.

"I'll meet you there right away!" I say.

"Good!"

"See you there!" I promise, hanging up the phone.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks calmly.

"They know we're here, they're coming here right now, they're coming to kill…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. That quinjet is seconds away. Vulture's men?"

"They know you're meeting the _informant…_ but they didn't know it was _me._ Don't you get it? They all KNOW me." I run my hands through my hair with realization. Panic. "That means someone on YOUR SIDE tipped them off! Otherwise _they'd know it was me._ "

Steve nods his head, trusting me on this. He looks back at a undulation of clouds above the river. The quinjet, with the quickly changing panels to reflect the surroundings, is getting closer. I am beginning to hear the hum.

"Our own informant," he says slowly. "I think… I think I might know who it is."

"The man dressed in black," I say. "The man I fought in the construction lot that night."

"Yes," Steve says, as if in physical pain. He swallows thickly. "I only advised _one_ person to tail the Vulture to find his informant. Someone who could have just as easily turned the tables to tail _me_ to find _you."_

"Shit," I whisper.

"It's going to be okay, Peter," Steve looks uneasily at the quinjet. "Wade - if… if we've been had, if he poses any danger to him, we'll try another…"

A sharp, metallic wind whistles towards us. My spider sense registers this, with a sharp jolt of painful confusion.

 _BAM, BAM._

Two gunshots.

So fast that neither of us duck.

The sound delayed - a sniper. Some miles away.

Steve looks down at his own chest, where two small, dark holes have plunged through his shirt. One through the lung, one through the heart.

Pools of blood seep through his gray shirt, dripping black and scarlet, spreading fast like crimson ink.

"Peh..." Steve tries to say my name, a rattle in his clenching throat.

A glint from the top of the 175 Pearl building.

 _BAM._

A third gunshot, and Steve's head snaps backwards with the sheer force of it, blowback splatters at me - I hear his heartbeat quicken, then stop, the ceasing of his lungs.

All spider sense, all capability of superhuman instinct, registers a simple fact too painful to be the truth:

The man standing in front of me is dead.

There's no vibrations in the air, no breath, nothing but a lifeless body, knees unlocking, beginning to fall...

I realize the presence of brain and skull, on my hands, as I reach for him.

Senses screaming at me to leave, instinct wanting me to duck, my hands rushing to catch him before...

...his body slumps heavily over the railing, the laws of physics tugging him off

the side of the building...

...gravity pulling him down in utter silence.

Limbs flailing limply in the drafts of air; he plummets for the ground.

I reach for one, miss it - realizing I'm airborne too, moving so fast that I barely notice I've launched myself from the side of the building. Falling too.

Plunging down at full, chaotic, suicidal speed, trying to catch Captain America before -

Before -

Before he -

I'm not fast enough, and I realize he's about to hit the pavement about a half-second before I will. He's already dead and then I will be too.

I clench my eyes shut right when his body hits the ground.

Self-preservation kicks in, and I bury my fist in the wall screaming by like a sheet of animated brick. I catch a handhold, then a second one, and then bury my feet, too, my limbs tearing aside brick and mortar in two deep grooves screeching behind me, like trenches dug in sand. Red dust, plaster, and smoke from the friction blow away in the wind. My skin shrieks with red-hot pain and scrapes, knuckles dislocated, wrists strained, muscles heaving.

Then I stop, breathing so hard I can't think, not six feet away from the first awning rooftop above a bank on the first floor.

I open my eyes and look, then shut them again, pushing my forehead into the brick.

I thought Parsons death was a fluke of horror, something too terrible to name, to deal with. I felt confused sadness, and guilt I felt I deserved. Then I swallowed the shock and got over it. Forced myself to.

This is so much worse. This is terror unfathomable, grief compounded by guilt that I drown in. Now.

This nightmare is happening right now and I will never, ever wake up from it.

I unstick my hands from the roof, falling the rest of the way. I let myself hit the edge, painfully, the railing catching my ribs like a wayward baseball bat when someone wanders a little too close to the game.

I drop over the last story, landing in front of the bank. The bank is closed, it's Sunday. The street is empty, but there's an SUV pulling around the corner at the far end. Someone will probably stop and call 911. Don't remember walking…

... to what is left of Steve Rogers.

After a fall like that -

He...

There's blood everywhere; face, caved in, landed - crumpled, fetal.

I find his chest, I press my hands to his wounds, now obscured by the excess blood, but I still lean in, ear searching, for signs of accelerated healing, finding none.

Nothing.

I should have said - I should have said thank you - if I had known, _if I had sensed…_ if I could have…

But a sniper is too far away. Too far for spider-senses to catch a hint.

Too far.

I notice the SUV. The SUV stops some distance away, doors opening, men in black stepping out.

I notice the sunglasses, the suits. Bullet proof vests, armed to the teeth. Their weapons aimed in my direction.

Agents of Shield. A strike steam.

I stand up quickly and back away from the body… from Steve Rogers. Blood on my hands.

"Not me," I try to whisper, but no sound comes out. My mouth opens and closes like a fish. I take several more steps back.

The agents advance, guns still pointed at me.

"Stop right there," calls one of them. "Hands up."

I hold up my hands. For a moment, I think I hear the sound of the quinjet overheard. My supposed rescue. Maybe the pilot is the person who betrayed Cap. Wade had to have been on the intercoms, Steve said his name. Maybe he heard… maybe he heard the gunshots, and did nothing. Maybe it's him.

A van tears around the corner behind me, tires burning, the door sliding open.

"GET IN, PEDRO!" Schultz shouts from the driver's seat.

Shield opens fire.

Gunshots blast against the side of the van, one zings right through, hits the window on the opposite side. Shatters.

One, two, three - more - go through the back passenger window too. Whomever is inside ducks quickly, but unable to avoid the explosions of glass, the smell of broken metal.

I drop low to avoid one bullet, I step out of range of another, not evening caring if the Vulture's crew sees my super-human dodging, only that I don't want to die -

like Cap -

I don't want to die - I don't want to die - I don't want to die -

I wonder where Jackson is in the van, and then I remember. He's dead too.

I recognize Quinn and Marcus, at least. A few of the Vulture's new guys. Quinn is holding the door open for me, I leap for them, and Marcus yanks on the back of my shirt to pull me in the rest of the way while Quinn slides the door shut.

The tires are peeling out as we turn and barrel inland.

Leaving Cap's body behind. My cover intact.

The agents keep shooting at the car even after their aim is too far off, one of them bends down over Cap's body, feeling for a pulse. Removes his glasses in grief.

We turn the corner and can't see them anymore.

I'm shaking so hard I can't think.

"Did you find the rat?" Marcus is shrieking with adrenaline and disbelief. "Did you SEE Captain America… Damn! But did you see who he was MEETING with?"

"No," I say automatically, the part I've been playing for so long fitting back on like an old worn glove. "I just GOT there! I didn't get to see what happened!"

"Where the fuck were you?"

"Getting groceries," I choke out.

"What FOR?" Marcus pushes. "How do we know YOU'RE not the rat?

"You just SAW me at the restaurant!" I choke out, enraged. "The Boss told me to beat it, MARCUS, so that YOU could have MY job tonight, and then shot Jackson! Do you expect me to NOT do what he says?"

"Hey, I just saved your ass, how about a little gratitude?" Marcus snarls.

"Should have let the agents put a bullet in my head," I shout back. "Should have just left me there... let them..."

"You stay cool, boy," Schultz's eyes gleam in the rearview mirror. "You're safe now with us. You're fucking lucky. If whoever took out Captain America _can_ take out Captain America, you sure as hell were next!"

"Guys!" Greg tries to interrupt.

"Bet his own informant took him out," Quinn says. "A rat is a rat is a rat. Killed the Cap himself to get in our good graces. Just you wait. Someone will come by bragging about it. We've got a bunch that were no shows today."

"Like WHO?" Marcus demands.

"You GUYS!" Greg snaps loudly.

Quinn starts excitedly naming off others. "Well, Kingston, Shawn, and Ellerby stayed behind, yeah? So that means we're missing Jacob, Harry, Tom, Ralphio, Pete Sanderson, Billy, Francis, Ryan…"

"The boss stayed behind, after all," Marcus interjects. "When we says WE are going rat hunting he actually means US."

"Fuck," Schultz says, darting another look at me in the rearview mirror. "So many CHOICES, isn't there? How could we POSSIBLY guess who it is?"

I hold his gaze in the mirror until he looks back at the road.

Maybe he knows its me.

Maybe he doesn't.

At this point, I would definitely guess it was me, if I were them.

The only reason they don't right now is because of the groundwork I've done so far, earning their trust. Keeping it when it counts.

"Guys, GUYS," Greg hollers from the seat behind us. "Your boy's been shot."

I whip my head around and look over the seat. _Oh no._

Davis.

Aaron Davis has holes in his stomach, too many bullet wounds clustered together.

Precision, rapid-fire shooting, bleeding faster, dark lengths of blood running through his shirt and into the seat where he slumps now. Bending his head against the arm rest, his fists are pressed into the wounds trying to hold himself still.

Nothing - no words from him, no jokes, no _just a scratch_ comments. That means it's bad.

"Holy shit," I whisper. "No… no no no," I clamber over the backseat. Rip off my jacket and wad it up, pushing it onto his wounds - too much blood, not enough… "Someone give me another jacket. Something. We've got to stop the bleeding."

Davis's stark white eyes are fluttering just beneath his dark lashes. Not quite conscious.

"Give me a jacket!" I repeat angrily, letting the tears for Captain America fall now. If I don't manipulate my own bodily reaction for the shock, then I'll lose it later. At a worse time, when I can't hide it, when it gives me away… when it kills me.

So I let my grief for Captain become my grief for Davis.

And somehow, there's sadness for Davis, too. Davis and Brice.

I don't know how I can hold all of this up inside me.

It's too much.

Quinn pulls off his plaid work shirt. I bunch it up and push it into Davis's wound too.

"Drive us to a hospital!" I demand through my sobs.

Schultz shakes his head. "I ain't going to no hospital."

"What if we drop him off?" I ask. "Like… Like. Just roll him out onto the sidewalk at the Emergency room and take off. He's still got a chance!"

"He ain't living," Marcus says, looking over the seat. "He's going."

"No, no, no, he's not," I cry. My hands are sticky with blood. It's getting all through the shirt, the seat, my arms. "You're killing him if you keep going! Take us to a hospital!"

"He's dead already," Schultz says. "Risk of the business, son. You have to get used to this part of the job. It happens. You're lucky that wasn't _you_ today."

 _How dare he call me son._

 _How dare he..._

Davis's breathing grows more and more labored.

Five minutes.

The men go back to excitedly talking about Captain America's death. Calling other guys in Vulture's crew that usually don't get to be part of anything exciting, secretly pinging their phones like they did with mine at the coffee shop to see if their location gives anything away. Giggling when they find out they're nowhere close.

Ten minutes.

Schultz is just driving us back to Punzi's.

A dying companion in the back seat, and he's taking us back to the damn tavern.

I thought he was a sociopath before, but now I know for sure he is.

Schultz slams on the brakes in the alley next to Punzi's. The guys load out.

"Help me," I command.

Marcus and Quinn shrug and help pull Davis out.

He wakes up briefly and groans horribly, a thick gurgle in his throat and blood pooling in the corners of his mouth. We struggle to get him out of the van and up the back steps and into the back exit by the bathrooms.

I'm carrying most of his weight but pretend to struggle with it. We get him into the backroom and put him on the pool table.

The other men leave, some of them running out front to report to Vulture again, only to find Vulture has left. Some of his other guys did show up, though, eager for news, milling around the counter by the front and asking Elliott why it smells like ash.

"Let him be, kid," Schultz is the last to leave. He picks up the cue ball, examines it, and sets it back on the green. Uselessly. "He's going to want to do this alone."

I shake my head. "I'm not leaving him. He's part of the crew."

Schultz rolls his eyes. "Fine."

He leaves me alone with him.

I shake my head, a migraine pounding in my temples.

Davis's eyes flutter open. "H-hey P-Parker," he chokes out.

"Aaron," I respond. "It's okay. You're going to be okay. Just - don't move, don't try to talk."

"Y'know I never wanted 'nything t'happen t'ya, right?" he whispers. Each word painfully wrought from him like he was willfully siphoning the minutes of his life left in order to speak to me.

"You've been a good friend," I lie. We never really talked much. But he never tried to hurt me, which is more than I can say for most of these guys. "You're a good person, deep down," I add. Hoping it for me as much for him.

"I g-g-gave you the wrong address," he says, and then he coughs wetly. Thick phlegm and blood rattles in his lungs.

"What?" I ask. My heart feels as if it is stopping.

"I knew it was you, but I had to see," Davis is speaking so quietly, I have to lean down to hear him. One of his hands, streaming with thick blood, reaches up and grasps my shirt at the neck. Keeping me in place to listen to the words I've dreaded hearing all along.

"I gave… you… the wrong address… on purpose," he repeats. "But you were already there…"

 _Already there._

Terror rhythmically beats in my temples, my palms, my stomach.

"No," I whisper. "You're wrong."

"I'm - not - wrong," Davis whispers again. "Ask me ...why... I didn't tell anyone."

If I ask, I admit guilt.

If I ask, he'll know I work for the Avengers.

If I ask…

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I whisper, so softly, it's only my mouth moving. I do not think any sound passes between us. Not anymore.

There's nothing.

"Good boy," Davis says softly. "Tell Miles he's my hero."

"Who is Miles?"

Davis can't seem to take a breath. He tries, his chest rises, but his lungs do not fill with air. They fill with liquid. And the gurgles…

"It's okay," I say thickly. "I'll tell him. I'll tell Miles. I'll tell him." I pick up his hand and hold it carefully in my own until the end.

When his hand goes slack and his chest no longer moves, I set it down on the table. Close his eyes and lay the bloodied shirt over his head.

I turn and leave the pool room without looking back.

"So?" Schultz says to me when I enter the restaurant.

"He's dead."

"Told you."

"That was nice of you, to stay with him," Mason is sitting at the counter.

I ignore him. "Where's the boss?" I ask Schultz.

"He left."

"I'm leaving too," I say. "I'm going back to my garage." I salute sarcastically. "If that's all okay with you guys? Try not to interrupt me with _another_ panicked call asking me to meet you somewhere to get shot at again."

Those that are here of the crew give me various nods of assent.

I walk out the front door and I don't look back.

The sun falls squarely on me, hot against my T-shirt. Turning the gore tacky against the fabric, my skin, where it seeps through.

I need to call Deadpool. But I can't - I don't know if my call will ring to the phone in Steve Rogers' pocket, or his. I don't want to ring a dead man's phone if Shield agents are bringing his body in.

I have to wait till someone calls me.

I'm always waiting. I'm tired of waiting.

 _Just a little longer,_ Cap was always saying.

We didn't have any longer.

He didn't.

 _It should have been… it shouldn't have been him. It should have been..._

He couldn't have possibly guessed that he was in much danger of being followed as I was. He trusted too deeply.

... _me._

"I'm sorry, Cap," I whisper to the blinding void, the sun glaring down, radiating with warmth and guilt both.

I wish it would swallow me up.

…

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...

* * *

Dear readers,

please don't hate me I love you all so much

\- pip

* * *

 **Reviewer Replies (and apologies...)**

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cargumentluv - hey! long time no see! I met you over on a hawaii 5 0 fic a long time ago ;) good to see ya. YAS Crystallopia the authoress of Riders in the Sky is one of my best friends and my beta reader. I'm so obsessed with her MCFU. She's a wonderful human being and I'm so glad we're both fans of her work. Thanks for giving my Avengers work a look! Hope this chapter didn't scare you away haha

gammathetaalpha - omg your review gave me so much life. Thank you for reading and being so thoughtful. I definitely couldn't publish this one as a book, since it's based on the movie already, but i did see a lot of "published" fanfiction today (like a novel about Black Widow! It looked so cool!) so maybe someday I'll be able to do something like this for a living. I'd love that. Thanks for reading :)

Up-In-the-Clouds1285 - thanks for the review, I am so happy you are enjoying my story!

Tony Stank - I feel the EXACT SAME WAY ABOUT BUCKY lol thank you for reading and reviewing

riskybanana - oh my god, Risky, thank you so much for such a thoughtful and kind review. You absolutely made my day. I think you will enjoy the rest of the book. It gets a little darker and scarier before it gets better, haha. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing even though you're not usually reviewing! It's appreciated more than you know. I live on reviews

curry-llama - Haha YAS thank you so much for the review. Did you end up watching the Departed? What did you think? It seems like a lot of the readers haven't actually seen the movie yet so the ending will still be a surprise, or at least, since I've changed the ending, some of the events leading up to it. Thanks so much for reading. Hopefully you don't hate me too much after this chapter haha

LoonyLovegood1981 - Thank you so much for your kind words! Happy readings my friend! (also sorry about this chapter haha)

Sakura-Fiction - lol right I feel the same way about Brice. Thanks so much for your review!

Starnight5 - oh my gawd, you totally called it lol. You're a smart cookie. Thanks for reading. Please don't hate me. I love your reviews

Tightpants182 - bless you for your reviews, I love them so much lol. You also called it early on. I just hope you don't want to quit reading after the death scenes haha. Keep reading I promise it gets better (hugs) Can't say so for X-Men though. that series is a bit of a hit and miss. I enjoy it very much, but, I recognize it is not a great series lol. I can't believe my fic is a pallette cleanser, that just makes me feel so blessed and delighted.


	18. Can't Take It In

Warnings: Scene of self-harm/violence, references to suicide/death, more F-bombs than I've ever said in my LIFE

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…

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Can't Take It In**

...

* * *

 **Chariots of Fire - Wade Wilson**

* * *

...

It's a good day for AC/DC.

"All you women," I sing loudly, "Who want a MAN OF THE STREET… but you don't know which way you want to TURN, just keep a COMIN', and put your hand out to me…"

"It's okay. Answer it," I hear Steve on the coms. "Maybe we can milk one last thing from that bastard before you're free of him for good."

It's practically Peter Parker's birthday. I should have brought cake. Candles. Happy first day as a named Avenger! Now, have fun signing your life away to the Accords. Double edged sword, little Spiderling. Double-edged sword.

"Cause I'm the one who's gonna make you BUUUURN!" I continue. I am in such a fucking good mood. I've been ready for this mission to be over since day one.

Time to reign in that poor kid and sign him up for a lifetime of therapy.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks.

I had already turned off the mic on my end, so that I could listen for Cap, but he did not have to listen to the fucking nightingale that I am. Not everyone can handle my perfect pitch.

Steve's tones are worried, concise. The usual.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. That quinjet is seconds away. Vulture's men?"

Of _course_ Vulture's men will jump in last minute and try to interrupt happily ever after. Those fucking bastards.

In the end, Steve's piss-poor plan was making Peter Parker disappear a la _Stranger Things_. We scoop him up in an invisible ship, and then someone finds Peter's "body" later on the Jersey Shore. Just like the discovery of the fake Will Byers body floating in the quarry.

"Don't worry," I had said. "Jonathan is dead to me. Team STEVE all the way."

Steve didn't get the reference, but he said he knew Dr. Cho could recreate a Peter Parker face on an already-dead corpse. Vulture would not bother hunting anyone if he believed they had been murdered.

I told Peter we wouldn't let anything happen to him.

So we fucking won't. A promise is a promise is a promise, till it's not.

Manhattan scrolls by beneath me just a little too slowly for my taste. I urge the lever forward, increasing speed.

The reflective panels of the quinjet need a consistent speed maintained for the utmost accuracy in reflecting the surrounding areas. You don't want to dip too far below or too high in one go.

I go faster than recommended number for low-altitude flying anyway.

"Our own informant," Captain America's voice rattles through the in-ear. "I think… I think I might know who it is…"

I'm looking at the target building in my horizon line.

A building growing swiftly bigger and bigger, with luckily, enough room to land on -

"Yes," Steve says to Peter. "I only advised _one_ person to tail the Vulture to find his informant. Someone who could have just as easily turned the tables to tail _me_ to find _you."_

"Well, fuck," I say, reaching over to the audio panel. "Who is it?" I turn on the mic button again so that he can hear me. "Rogers!" I shout. "Who is it?"

A seagull hits the left wing and explodes in a shower of feathers and blood.

"Jesus Christ!" I exclaim.

"It's going to be okay, Peter," I hear Steve say. "Wade - if… if we've been had, if he poses any danger to him, we'll try another…"

Gunshots -

...blast through the in-ear coms. It's so loud it's like getting hit upside the head with a wooden plank three consecutive times.

"FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!" I wrench the cord, the com popping out and falling with a clatter to the floor.

I see Captain America jump first. Straight off the side of the building at a dead weight, headfirst, limbs loose in the speed of the wind. Zero control over it.

Wait. Not jumping.

Falling.

Then Peter jumps after him.

"Jesus Henry fucking Christ," I rasp. "WHAT THE FUCK!"

I speed up, grasping the landing levers like a pair of defibrillation paddles and jerking them backward, the nose of the quinjet rising dangerously quickly, and the landing gear screeching out.

I land on the recently vacated roof, and badly. The quinjet lurches and settles, the hydraulics crying loudly at being treated unfairly. The engines slow down to a rumbling neutral.

"Fucking fuck seatbelt mother-trucking Nickel-backing ass wipe," I shout incoherently, unbuckling the straps and throwing myself out of the chair. I tug the always-too-tight red and black mask over my scarred face, plunging my fist straight through the button that opens the ramp in the back. It bursts with a shower of sparks.

The steam hisses as the ramp drops, and I'm barreling down it, two steps at a time, and looking over the railing.

The city below looks like a pleasant snapshot of google maps, except what looks like the result of a pumpkin-tossing contest splattered on the pavement below. A pumpkin with two arms, two legs...

 _No._

 _No no no no..._

Peter is walking away from his body. What the fuck, Sugarbear?

"PEH…" I start to scream his name, but clamp down on my tongue.

I see the cars, almost too late.

Agents of Shield in their classical _I work for the government now suck my dick black_ SUV and then the criminals in their _You can suck mine too_ hand-me-down brown van.

Okay, maybe don't scream down at the strike team - outing Parker and my presence simultaneously. If anything, it looks like I pushed Captain America off the roof, and if I say his name now - that brown van full of fucking imbeciles will realize who he is and they'll just shoot him in the back.

The only way Petey survives this is if we contact him later when he's alone.

...And Cap is the one with burner phone that we passed between us for contacting Parker. Fuck. Okay. So. The Agents will bring in his body, I'll get the phone, I'll call him then…

God I want to yell at him right now. Tell him it's going to be okay…

Can't call OUT to him without outing him; to not one, but two dangerous parties, both of which a trigger caress shy of dropping him in the street.

The gunfire starts.

Peter jumps into the van and the tires peel out. I can smell the hot rubber from here.

The Shield agents ceasefire and then reverently approach Cap's body. Checking for a pulse. Feeling none and shaking their heads. Pulling out their phones to make the calls to their superiors. A few of them start to look up, to see the source of his fall.

They see nothing, because I'm already running for the quinjet. Maybe I can catch up to him? Shoot down the car and extract him? Yeah, no, that wouldn't work… stick with plan A. Get the phone from Cap's body.

But wait, those Agents don't report to us. They report to Shield. And with Fury out of town - If those guys call straight to the top and speak with Alexander Pierce, that means the rest of the shitheads at Shield are going to hear the news before the Avengers do.

Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…

This is a fucking nightmare.

No no no no…

I smash into one of the wings with my face, clotheslining myself and knocking my head backwards, sprawling completely backwards on the roof.

I left the motherfucking reflective panels on.

"MOTHER FUCKING…" I hold my stinging nose and struggle to my feet, ducking under what appears to be nothing at all, running towards what I _thought_ was the back. It takes me a second till I find the open ramp. It looks like a magical doorway to a hidden land, except that land looks like a storage closet on a plane and smells like leather and cleaning chemicals. What a disappointment Narnia turns out to be.

I hit the button again, luckily not entirely broken but still sparking a little, and the ramp shuts slowly. I pace back and forth in time to the squealing metal, one hand swiping my fancy-ass Stark phone and trying to figure out if I'm dialing, or if I'm supposed to project one of those tiny little blue holograms in the air and hit a button with someone's face on it.

"HEY SIRI," I yell. Nothing happens. "YOU BITCH," I scream at it. "CALL TONY FUCKING STARK!"

There's no Siri, but Stark tech is better. Tony's peeved and candid face pops up; his contact photo is from a split second of magic where I snapped a picture of him the moment he stepped out of the men's room. Underneath his photo, floating text says _RINGING._

I punch the console one, two, three, four - five -

Six -

Seven…

"Wade," greets Stark in an indifferent manner. "This better be good."

"Oh, shit," I moan. I didn't think about actually breaking the news to him, and now I have to. It's too late to back out. "Oh… shit shit shit shit fucking shit fuck."

"What is it _this_ time?"

"Get … get everyone into the rec room," I say. "No - wait. Not everyone. Just your core people. The ones you trust. We have an emergency."

"Like they canceled Brooklyn 99 again and Mark Hamill tweeted about it, or an actual, real-life emergency?"

"Fuck, Stark, listen to me for a goddamn second," I say. "We have an actual fucking emergency."

"What's wrong?"

Now or never, Deadpool. Grow a pair. Say it.

"Rogers is dead. I just saw it. I just saw it happen."

Silence.

"What did you just say?" Stark's voice is so low, I can barely hear it.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry. Get our people there. Call in Natasha, she's off on mission right now. Fuck. Stark. Do it - fucking. Shit. Hell. Jesus Christ, Stark - "

"Wade, please tell me I'm old. I'm deaf. I didn't hear you correctly."

"Steve Rogers is dead. Fuck… I just saw him get fucking _blasted_ off a _fucking_ roof."

He needs a minute to take it in.

He takes his goddamn minute, and I let him. I hit buttons out of habit, muscle memory. Turning the engines back up to full flight, feeling the lift off. The lurch in my stomach having nothing to do with the fact that I'm flying.

"What happened?" Stark chokes. "What the fuck happened?"

"He was picking up our kid. Our undercover. Someone shot him and I saw him fall off the fucking roof. He's dead, Stark. I didn't… I didn't get to him - in time - I didn't…" I gulp and punch the console again. "Jesus Christ. Hungh. Oh boy. Brideshead revisited. Brideshead might be the tacos I ate for lunch. Fuck."

I think I might actually throw up.

"Where's the kid?" Stark manages, barely whispering.

"Fuck…" I whisper. "He ran off. I'll have to extract him some other way. But he's alive."

I hear Stark let out a long, shaking breath. It sounds relieved.

"Where's - Steve?" his voice hitches.

"Fucking Shield agents got to him first. I couldn't get to him without outing my guy. There was a firefight. Steve's with Shield. They'll be calling it in, but…" I gag a little too loudly. "Jesus Christ. Give me a fucking second. Just a second." I take a deep breath. "I'm coming in. Right now."

I hear Tony Stark move around, maybe pushing the phone away. Silence. I know he's losing it. I'm losing it too.

The tears on my face having _nothing_ to do with watching Titanic again with Ness last night and thinking maybe this time Jack _does_ make it. One of these days I keep thinking Kate Winslet won't let go.

"Stark," I say. "Tell me your arc reactor is still working? I'm going fucking crazy."

He takes a shuddering breath. Again, and again.

I know he's having a full blown panic attack right now, and it'll be a second before he can talk.

The river streams by beneath me, clouds glittering too happily.

"How soon can you get here?" Tony's voice finally emerges.

"Less than five minutes. I banked too hard when I landed, I gotta take it easy on the rotors. I'd be there in three seconds otherwise… fuck…"

"You okay?" Stark asks me. Genuinely wondering.

"Of-fucking-course I'm okay…"

I think about my inability to die. That should have been me on that roof. That should have been me. Steve insisted. He wanted to bring the kid home himself. Should have been me. I could have just taken the hit, fell off a building, bounced back. Let my limbs rebuild themselves…

"Should have been me," I say. "That should have fucking been me."

Stark pulls in a breath, painfully.

"Get the team together," I repeat. "I'll have to… fucking - debrief everyone."

Stark's tone becomes hard, professional. He pulls it together. Forces himself to, anyway.

"Copy that," he says, but his voice gives out on _that._ Disappears entirely. "Stay safe. We'll be in the rec room waiting for you."

The call ends.

I consider landing the quinjet safely and putting a bullet through my head in the cockpit just to turn off the emotions for a little while, but I promised Vanessa I would never use temporary suicide as a way to deal with my problems.

Unless a mission called for it, in which case, she gave me her blessing. She loved the idea as much as I did of getting to surprise bad guys by being dead for a few minutes and then sitting up in their infiltrated space singing a song about resurrection and seeing the looks of terror on everyone's faces…

I usually don't call her on the job, but I do this time.

"Hey, Red," she says fondly. "It's a little early for you to be asking what I'm wearing, isn't it?"

"Ness," I say, and my voice chokes up. "Hey. Hi. Hiii. God, your voice. It sounds like so beautiful. Incredibly sexy. Literally everything that Blake Shelton isn't. So why the fuck is he on every magazine cover ever? Sexiest man alive? Maybe most tolerable potato alive."

"What's wrong?" she asks instantly. No fooling this one.

"Just wanted to hear your voice."

"You okay?"

"If we're looking at a definitive okay - _I'm_ okay - but, I just - just lost someone - I'll have to tell you when I'm home. Okay? I'm sorry. I just wanted to - yeah. Hear your sexy voice for a second. It calms me."

"Don't be sorry with me. Ever," she says firmly. "You lost someone?"

"Very unexpectedly? Like it-should-not-have-happened and I'm overwhelmed with enough-guilt-to-fund-a-third-sequel?" I'm actually crying. "Grown - ass - man, weeping, over here," I confess.

Now I'm making myself cry even harder than the time I was regrowing a leg after an unfortunate landmine-explosion incident and Ness started playing the _Chariots of Fire_ theme song every time I hobbled towards her.

I guess it's different when you're not crying because of laughing too hard.

"Fuck it," I whisper. "Oh, Jesus. Ness. It's bad."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just… emotionally brace yourself for the manly grief that you'll have to deal with tonight. I'm talking; hot bath, liquor, montage-sad-music-sequence bad. B movie. Everyone has a vague memory of Morgan Freeman playing the friendly old neighbor in this one but it's actually Donald Glover. The DVD copy still has a blockbuster sticker on it. It's that bad. Okay?"

"Consider myself braced. I'll buy an extra tissue box."

"Make it five."

"Bottle of scotch already out. I'll pregame now."

" _Dios sonríe a los gatitos,_ " I whisper. "I love you."

"I love you, Wade Wilson. Come home when you can."

...

* * *

 **My Fault - Bucky Barnes**

* * *

...

"This is Barnes."

"Fuck, Barnes, I've been trying to call you back…"

"What the HELL is going on there, Rumlow? _I've_ been trying to reach you."

"Captain America just got shot."

No.

 _No no NONONONONO..._

I brace myself on the chair. "How bad? Where is he?"

"Unclear," he says. "Unclear."

"What the hell do you mean unclear?"

"He came off the building."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, shots fired, Rogers fell off the building."

"Which building?"

"The J building."

But the building is several stories tall… over ten. Even enhanced, Steve would have to do some quick thinking to survive the fall. Tuck, roll, let his Shield absorb the impact.

But if he was already shot - what if he wasn't conscious when he fell? What if he didn't have his Shield with him? I didn't ask, they didn't check - they were just tailing him. Ordinary. Just following the guy. Reporting to me.

This isn't… this could not be real…

This isn't real.

 _Can he survive a dead fall?_

"What the hell are you doing about it?" I snarl. "All this _unclear_ better become _clear…"_

"Look, BARNES, I am updating YOU as they are UPDATING ME…"

"So you sure as hell better _update_ me…"

"Okay - okay - copy that - my men say they took some shots at the guy he was meeting with. He just got away. Hitched a ride with the Vulture's cohorts. We definitely got one of them in the van - even if he ain't dead now he don't have much longer. Should we pursue?"

"What the hell are you saying?" I gasp for air. "No, don't _pursue_ until you fucking tell me what happened to CAPTAIN AMERICA? Where did he fall? Do they have a visual?"

I feel like the air is leaving me now.

I can't fucking breathe.

Can't breathe or think.

Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe...

Rumlow's husky voice drones annoyingly off-mic to someone else. "My men just told me he's dead," he says shortly. "They're looking at him now."

"That's impossible. _He's enhanced._ He can't just fall off a building…"

"He didn't. He's got three high-caliber bullet entry wounds in what's left of his head and chest."

"What's left…" I repeat.

I sink towards the chair.

Miss it by a few inches, falling heavily onto the floor.

 _No… Steve._

 _No._

My brother, my best friend…

I can't do this without him.

"How," I choke out.

"Sniper," Rumlow says shortly. "Probably from the building across the street. Can't see much. I was running the surveil from a van a few blocks away. My guys were in a car out in front of the building. I'll get more when I get more."

Silence.

"Any more _orders,_ boss?" Rumlow asks. He's trying to sound compassionate, but it comes across as mocking. Mockery in the face of a fallen hero. Without Steve's commands here, it falls to me.

"Bring the body," I say hoarsely. "Bring it to the med examiner's room at Avengers Tower. Do it fast, keep it quiet. Just call it in to the tower directly. Don't call Pierce. I'll report it myself."

"Copy that, boss." He hangs up.

 _Longing, Rusted, Seventeen…_

I struggle to my feet. "Shut up," I say out loud.

 _Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign..._

I glance up at my reflection, in the nearest blank computer monitor.

The Winter Soldier looks back at me, eyes gray. Dead like a shark.

But he's grinning.

The corners of his mouth stretch out just a little too far. Smiling widely as if two hooks on either side of his lips are pulled taut. An animal smile, teeth showing.

I throw my head down into the table as hard as I absolutely can, letting out a bellow of absolute, black-pitch anguish. I hear the metal slam against my forehead but don't register the pain. Because my mind is eroding, trying to let the Winter Soldier back in.

Blinking in and out like a light switch.

I roar again, slamming my head down into the table once more - two more times.

My nose breaks, my eyes fill with saltwater.

I scream and fall back onto the floor, scrambling and warding off - nothing. There's nothing. My back hits the wall, and I clutch at my knees, my breath roaring in and out.

I can feel the pain, now, the broken nose, streaming eyes, bloody mouth.

But the Russian words stop. For now.

My mind quiets again, and fills with memories of Steve. Before the serum. When he was my little brother, in stature only. I could throw my arm around him and ruffle his hair, teasing him about girls, school, picking on people his own size to avoid black eyes and broken noses.

I remember his insistence that he would never turn a blind eye to someone in need.

I remember witnessing his grief when his mom died.

I feel that now, that agony.

Words left unsaid that I can never remedy now. The relief I would feel from confessing the truth to him - that I'm a double agent. But that I don't want to be. How I've been trying to keep everyone alive and live long enough to fix it myself.

I need his help getting out of it, somehow.

 _Help me, Steve,_ I think.

It's too late. It's all too late.

 _Mission accomplished,_ I imagine Pierce saying.

Except that never was the mission. Not for me.

So whose was it?

...

* * *

 **Operation Forty-One - Alexander Pierce**

* * *

...

My cell rings.

"Pierce," I answer.

I knew the call was coming. Waited for it, anticipated it.

The winter soldier breathes heavily on the other side. "Was it you?" he asks. I can hear his struggle, the grief compounded by a mind that is only partially his own.

I consider my answer, as I've already thought about it in many ways. Weighed the benefits of lying, half-truths, or the entirety of it.

"Captain America let you into the Avengers," I respond. "Now that you're established there, his presence was no longer needed. It's never - truly - been needed. Nor wanted. He's been a target of Hydra for more than fifty years. It's a miracle that I've been able to hold off the inevitable this long."

Silence.

"I'm going to kill you," James Barnes whispers. "I will kill you slowly. Watch you bleed while you hang by your toes from the…"

"Tsk tsk tsk," I click my tongue at him disappointedly. "Idle threats do not become you."

" _I will kill you."_

"You cannot hurt me," I say softly. "It's in your programming."

"I'm not a _robot_ that you can command at your _will…"_

"Is that not what you've been doing for us for fifty-plus years?" I sigh. "Barnes, we've been through this childish tirade before. Do you want us to wipe your memories again? Pull you from domestic work, send you off on another war-inciting mission?"

"Yes," the man weeps. "Yes. Whatever it takes. I can't do this. Take it all. Erase everything of me."

"Only because you asked so sincerely," I say kindly, "My answer will be no."

Silence.

"Only to remind you that I can," I say. "Because you are a weapon. And we own you."

"Who was it?" he asks.

"Who was what?"

"Who killed him? I know you gave that order. Who pulled the trigger?"

"Tracking my assassin will do nothing for you," I remind him. "Soldier, I'm tired of this conversation. Go back to doing the job you're there for. Keep the Avengers off the Vulture."

"I'll keep him happy if I can find Captain America's undercover, but you killed him! I can't do my job any more! Bring me in. Wipe my memories. All of them. I can't be here anymore."

"No, I think you can, and you will. You don't need Steve Rogers. Never did. Maybe without him, some of those responsibilities will fall to you, and you'll have easier access to that information you need so badly." I sigh and tug my glasses off my face. "So _you're welcome for that."_

Another silence.

"Call me back when you have a cohesive mission report," I demand. "Until then, I'm done with you."

I hang up the call.

Barnes, if ever released from our powers of control, would be a formidable enemy. But he was always less than Steve Rogers - his second tier in everything. Strength, power, skill, inspiration. His shadow self, alternative.

So today proved that we can, at great length, take out our greatest enemies. A foe constantly on our radar time and time again. Barnes is the lapdog, nipping at his heels. If we can take care of Hydra's number one enemy - it would be all too easy to take care of second.

Barnes is not indispensable. It would do him well to be reminded of it.

I had not thought about his loyalty, or emotional reactions to our work, for quite some time. He's been off the radar for me. There may have been a time where I could have trusted him to pull the trigger himself - I even said as much to my hired gun the day I gave him the case.

" _I don't want to entirely trigger the Winter Soldier. Having half of one is sufficient for now. Just enough of a conscience to make him believable, but not enough of one to make him openly defy his orders... The only way he would do this assignment properly is if I wipe his memory. Completely. It undoes all the groundwork we've laid so far."_

I had pushed the case across the desk.

Grant Ward opened the case, unclasped the metal lid. Looked inside.

".50 caliber," he said with approval. But then he leaned in closely. The sheen was wrong, I knew he'd pick up on that detail right away.

He sniffed the metal like a raccoon testing fruit before diving in, all canines, curled snarls. Dark eyes looking up with startled realization - unlike the others, this mission would be successful.

He knew it, and I knew it.

There've been attempts, certainly, in the past. But this one… this one, this would be a victory for Hydra. For the world. Our world.

"They're coated with vibranium?" he asked, shocked.

I smiled at him, and straightened my tie.

"Poetic, isn't it?"

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT:** The Avengers gather at the Tower. To process. To grieve. To plan on what to do next.

* * *

 **Reader Replies and more apologies - see below!**

 **You guys are seriously the best readers ever and I love all of you! Thank you for all your support and reactions, it really meant a lot!**

* * *

 **NEW AVENGERS STORY!**

I got kicked in the face by an evil plot bunny and I am working on a new Avengers story. I know, it's crazy, I have too many projects and commitments, but I'm obeying the muse. It's called "INTO OBLIVION" and it's on my profile. Please check out the first chapter and left me know what you think! It's a Peter-Avengers centric AU based on... (drumroll)... Lord of the Rings. I know. I KNOW. (Starts playing A Million Dreams from the Greatest Showman)

Here's a short summary:

A post-apocalyptic Earth leaves the Avengers scattered across the galaxy and a world in ruin. The defeat of Thanos on Asgard by Captain Marvel is now a legend. Peter Parker finds something he never expected; an infinity stone. He'll do whatever it takes to destroy it before Thanos returns, and he'll need the Avengers' help to do it.

* * *

 **READER REPLIES**

* * *

Queen of Crystallopia - MY DEAR BETA, Thank you so much for your review. It had me squeal/giggling. Thank you so much for all your support during this crazy project. couldn't do it without you!

Tightpants182 - Thank you so much for your review! And yeah you're right, 'this game has no winners' is a perfect way to describe whats going on right now. and truly, thats how the movie ends too is with like - no winners (except the Deadpool character). TAKE HEART THOUGH, IM ENDING MINE DIFFERENTLY.

curry-llama - omg your review made me so happy but I am also sort of sorry you read this at 3 AM because what a wicked time of morning to try and process fictional death... ALSO THE FACT THAT YOU GASPED OUT LOUD GIVES ME SUCH LIFE. Thank you so much for reading and sending such a thoughtful review. "So shooketh" is literally now my favorite phrase and I will be using this in my conversations with my beta QueenofCrystallopia on a daily basis

gammathetaalpha - there will be some... subtle... references to Coulson, and some plot twists... just maybe not what you're expecting ;) AND YES I WILL HUG PETER FOR YOU

DaWriter06 - oh my god, thank you SO much! what a compliment!

LoonyLovegood1981 - Yeah Aaron Davis is the uncle of Miles Morales. I know I'm SO sorry but thank you so much for reading!

Tony Stank - Your review made me so happy lol this is like, what I live for, reviewers losing their shit... thank you for joining this circus. "Press F to pay respecks" honestly I don't know the reference, but by any chance is it from Red Vs. Blue? The tv show that uses cut scenes and game play + voices from Halo? ALSO I love that you also guessed that Deadpool's POV was next! I love that so much! (did you feel that there were enough F bombs?) Also Miles won't be in this story, but I like to broaden my world as much as possible and reference characters from the comics

cargumentluv - IM SORRY YOU ARE FLUSTERED, thank you so much for reading and joining... good to have you. HUGS

Starnight5 - ironically our writing schedules have been totally different and we both just happen to be posting chapters simultaneously where Cap is in life-threatening danger. I wana say great minds think alike but maybe I should say evil-author minds think alike. Thanks for appreciating the gore, it's not easy for me to write but I don't know how else to portray a death like this with honesty. Also I LOVE that you totally called that the next POV would be Deadpool's. It makes me feel like you really get my universe lol :) Thanks so much for the long and thoughtful review, it means SO much to me!

Sakura-Fiction - I'm so sorry my friend but thank you so much for reading!


	19. Raise a Glass

…

 **CHAPTER NINETEEN - Raise a Glass**

…

...

* * *

 **Broken - Tony Stark**

* * *

...

One of the better times we were all in the rec room like this, Vision was giving us all a floor show by picking up Mjolnir and handing it to Thor. Proving his worth.

We fought Ultron together here. Argued here. Partied here.

This is essentially our family room.

And the family is here again. Most of us.

Wanda, Clint, Rhodey, Sam, Bruce, Vision.

We're missing Natasha and Lang. I'll have to call Lang later. I called Agent Klein and asked him to track down Agent Sharon Carter. She deserves to hear the news in person - from me, preferably, but we've got to find her first.

We don't have a way to call Thor on Asgard. From all the strides we've made technologically, we're at a loss for getting satellites out that far for a signal, and Thor is hopeless when it comes to a cell or a radio.

I already called Natasha, and it went straight to voicemail. Told her to call me right away. Bruce tried, too. More so than I would have. I think one missed call will do the trick.

Bruce called her four times. A bit excessive.

Wade had to say it again.

Twice more before anyone could grasp what they were hearing.

"Steve Rogers was just killed," he says. "He's… he's gone."

The air is palpable with the shock.

The grief bleeding in.

"NO," Sam Wilson shouts loudly.

His voice feels like it punches right through my chest.

For some reason, I look at Wanda. Her presence is calming. She pinches her lips shut, trying to force her chin to stop trembling. Looking down at her hands, where red lights pulse under her fingernails like traffic stops aching to get out. Her forearm muscles clench, and I can tell she is working, actively, to prevent her grief from intermingling with her powers. Keeping shockwaves down to a minimum.

Bruce sits beside her, his fists clenching the bunched up fabric of his pants around his knees. He shifts slightly forward, slightly back. He's not uncomfortable. He's trying to keep himself from rocking back and forth.

I watch Wanda's hand reach over and clamps down on Bruce Banner's trembling arm. Almost both a friendly gesture, and a warning. I can tell the movement both comforts and centers him. He blows out a breath between his teeth, watching Wade Wilson.

"How?" Rhodes demands. "How did this happen?"

Wade Wilson stands by the couch, one hand braced against it. Holding himself up while he - haltingly, and without jokes - without horrible metaphors - or any of his MOs, he tells us what happened.

"I was flying the quinjet in to pick up Rogers and our undercover," he says. "It's - uh - Operation Homecoming, is what we've been calling it. I was… they… so I can see them. From where I'm at. J building in Dumbo. Right over the river. I'm close enough. Rogers says he thinks he knows who's been feeding them our intel. And then I hear shots in the audio, he falls…"

"Shots from _who?"_ demands Clint.

"We don't fucking know," Wade responds. "A sniper."

"Wait, what did he do?" I ask, sitting up. Clenching my fists. "I mean, the - undercover. Before he ran off."

"He tried to catch him," Wade responds. "I mean - he tried to catch Steve. Keep him from falling off…" His eyes narrow at me. "You know who it is, don't you?"

Both Sam and Clint do the same thing. Cats watching ping-pong. Heads swing back and forth between the two of us.

"I know who it is," I admit.

"How the fuck do you know?" Wade asks.

"Perhaps this is another conversation best had in private," Vision urges. "The safety of your informant is still unknown to the rest of us."

"Zip it, Messiah-boy," Wade snaps at him. Looks back at me. "HOW?"

"Steve and I…" my voice warbles. I wipe my mouth with my hand, stand up, pace behind one of the couches. Leaning on it, both hands on the back. "About a week ago. Steve and I were getting dinner. His informant approached us and needed to talk, didn't realize I was there with him."

"Fuck," Wade says. "He knows better than that."

"It was an accident," I snap. "And it doesn't matter now, does it?"

"It does too matter!" Sam Wilson stands up suddenly. "How do we know this informant didn't go full rogue and just pop Cap himself?"

"It's a valid point," Rhodes says. "How can you trust this guy?"

"It wasn't him," Wade and I say at once.

"Feelings are not proof," Vision says.

"Oh, pick a damn side, Cyclops," Wade growls at him. "This nice-guy-advocate routine you do _really_ gets my dick in a knot."

"So _your_ informant was meeting with Steve on top of the J building?" Bruce says, trying to bring the tension down. "So he had the proximity…"

"I saw Rogers fall, remember?" Wade continues. "It wasn't our guy. I was close enough. I could see his hands. He wasn't armed. I already told you. It was a sniper."

Clint jerks his chin in my direction. "You got stats on those buildings by any chance? From any of your failed real-estate ideas?"

"Yes," I say. "Why?"

Clint shakes his head, getting to his feet. "I want blueprints. If I can figure out how far - and high - the bastard was, I might be able to get more intel. I know long-range strikes. And I know the guys who can shoot almost as good as I can. Maybe I can get a list of suspects started."

"What's the use, Clint?" I ask with despair.

"Come again?" Clint asks, with a head tilt. Either he doesn't get _why_ I asked, or he's not wearing his hearing aids today.

"Shield arrived on scene immediately," Wade says. "They were in the neighborhood on a surveillance mission. Brock Rumlow just called the Tower radio and said his strike team is bringing him in…"

"The fuck was Rumlow doing there at the same time?" I ask, my suspicions deepening.

"Bringing who in?" Clint asks. "The shooter?"

"STEVE," Wade shouts. "They picked up his body off the fucking street and they're bringing him to the med-floor. For the fucking medical examiner that we keep on call in case shit like this happens."

I feel pain squeezing my lungs too hard. The reactor in my chest feels tight.

"The… the wounds should tell us something, too," Bruce hesitates. "The type of weapon used." He looks at Clint.

Clint pauses. Looks away, then towards the ceiling. He heaves a deep breath, collecting himself. "For just one goddamn second," he whispers, not even looking at us, "Let me pretend I'm doing something useful." He looks back at me, eyes narrowed. "I'll be using the screens down the hall."

He slams the door behind him.

Bruce flinches.

"Who else knew about getting the informant today?" Sam asks. "You have to consider that if there's a leak here… a real one…"

"No one else knew!" Wade throws his hands out. "That's what I've been trying to fucking say! It was just Rogers and I!"

My cell rings.

I step away and answer. "Nat," I say. I rarely call her Nat. Bruce sits up, looks at his phone in confusion. I walk a few more steps away for privacy.

"It took me while before I got a signal," Natasha replies. "What's up?"

"You - sitting down?" I ask, and my voice chokes up again.

Her voice rasps out. "Sure," and I hear her sit. "Bad… news?"

I try to speak and I let out a pained sort of _uagh_ instead.

"Is Bruce all right?" she asks.

Oh.

I see.

Late as it is, I realize it now. They're a thing. A couple.

Well shit. I feel like an idiot.

I should have seen that.

A few days ago Bruce came down to the labs, going _on_ and _on_ about Natasha's suspicions about Bucky Barnes's bad intentions.

I had brushed him off.

"She's only saying that because she doesn't want people to know they're probably secretly dating," I had said, laughing. "You should see your face right now. Natasha always tries to point suspicions elsewhere when she's trying to keep her love-life a secret."

I remember Bruce's face now, how angry he looked for a second, and then how he tried not to laugh, and then put on his glasses, hooking them over one ear at a time, and then went to work.

"Yes," he had muttered, still trying to contain his huffing, surprised laughs. "That must be it. They're secretly dating and she's just trying to distract me from figuring it out."

"Bingo," I had said.

Now I realize it was the other way around. Natasha and _Bruce_ were together. Natasha actually truly _did_ have suspicions about Barnes - confessing them to Bruce.

I remember on Barnes's first official day with us, Wade Wilson did nothing but complain about him. That there was something fishy going on.

" _I agree that I trust one person, and that is myself - no, two people. Myself and Blind Al. And I am trusting when my gut says bad news. I like my work here… And I like these people. I won't let anyone else fuck that up. Not for a moment."_

" _Okay,"_ I had told him then, " _Do whatever you want. Leave me out of it."_

I wonder what exactly Wade thought of then. If he did anything at all. And if he did, what was he thinking now?

None of us _liked_ Barnes, not really. Except Steve, and Natasha, I had thought. I thought that my dislike and mistrust of him was mere pettiness. A sign of immaturity on my part.

But Wade felt the same way - had told me so at the beginning.

Now Natasha. Now Bruce.

And who is the only person missing from this room right now?

Steve's "best" friend, James Buchanan Barnes. Though to be fair, I didn't invite him to this meeting anyway.

"He's fine, he's safe, he's here with me," I say, avoiding using his name. "I'm sure he's realizing right now his phone was on silent, as per usual, because ringtones make him angry."

Natasha takes a deep breath. "Yes, I called him back first. Didn't answer… just - talk to me, Stark. What happened?"

I pinch my brows together with my hand, digging my thumbs in to try and rid myself of the - imagery.

"Steve's dead, Nat."

Silence.

More silence.

"No," she manages one syllable. Barely uttered.

"Mission is off," I say hoarsely. "Come home."

I hear her get up. Unzipping a bag. "How," she says. Not a question.

"We don't know who…"

"No, Tony," she repeats. "How."

She's an assassin herself. She needs to know…

"I can't say..." I whisper. I take a shuddering breath.

"Try," she replies. Steel.

"O-one shot to the head, ugh… two to the heart. If… if that didn't kill him… the fall did."

"What kind of fall?"

"Ten-plus stories."

I hear the bag zip again. "I'm leaving now."

"Thank you."

She hangs up.

...

* * *

 **Anger Management - Bruce Banner**

* * *

...

Tony walks back to the couch. I fight the urge to stand up and immediately call Nat, knowing she's off the line. If she doesn't want people to know we're together yet, it's fine. It's fine. It's just in moments like these…

Tony gives me a strange expression, before turning and addressing the whole group. "Natasha is on her way back," he announces.

Wanda stands up too.

"Where you going?" I ask.

"Getting a drink," she snaps. She looks at Stark. "Do you have anything Russian in that bar?" she gestures to the counter along the wall behind him.

Tony nods. He looks feverish, shaky. "Yes."

Then he blinks, watches her push her way past him, ducking around the counter and examining the shelves behind it. "You old enough?" he asks shortly.

Wanda gives him a glare that could melt the building. "Yes."

Sam angrily paces over to the counter, leans over. "Yo, Madmax," he says, his voice riddled - pockmarked - with grief. The angry kind. The kind trying to contain itself until he can face a punching bag in the gym later, unleashing the energy on unsuspecting bags of rubber full of sand. For now, he's ticking like a bomb. "Can you hook a guy up?"

Wanda takes some care in selecting him a bottle. "This one," she says, handing it to him.

"Where are the glasses?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Take the bottle," she replies crisply. "Trust me."

He wraps his hand around the bottleneck, drags it for a moment down the counter before holding it loosely in his hand as he walks away from us, over to one of the other couches.

The sound of glass sliding on the wood - the sound of his body settling in the leather - sets my teeth on edge. Makes my jaw hurt as if I ate something too sweet.

"Fuck this shit," Wade whispers to himself, turning away from us and pacing over to the large windows and then back again.

This grief feels too real. Too normal. Taking calls… drinking alcohol… normal things requiring a body to get up and move, go through the motions. Running on pure muscle memory to function.

It makes me want to tear out my hair and break down the door, running for the hills...

I peek at my phone again. Of course I missed the call from her, and I couldn't ask Tony to let me be the one to give her the bad news instead of him. Not in front of everyone, it would be a dead giveaway.

But there's a new text now.

 _Bruce._

 _I'm coming home to you._

I text her back.

 _I love you. I'm so sorry baby._

The door opens. I turn, expecting to see Clint, spouting off random facts about wind trajectory and how the shooter had to have been exactly so-many-yards-away.

It's Barnes.

I quickly click my phone screen off, putting it in my pocket. I find myself standing and bracing myself.

I don't know what I expected, but my body language reads _defense._ Which puts everyone else on edge, who if they weren't already sitting, stand at attention. Following my lead.

"Where the hell have you been," Tony says, walking towards him. Checks his appearance. "What the HELL happened to you?"

Barnes, too, braces himself. His eyes are so badly bloodshot, he looks like a vampire. His nose is broken, deep lines of dark purple cradling his eyes, dried blood crusted under his nostrils.

"I was calling Nick Fury - to…" his voice breaks. "To tell him… I have bad news... About Steve..."

"We already know," Tony asks. "Who the fuck told you?"

I step closer behind him.

Barnes looks at Tony. Then at me. "Brock Rumlow. His team was reporting to me on the ground when it happened. I was following a lead nearby."

Wade freezes. His head twists towards Barnes like a doll in one of those horror movies. "You fucking WHAT?"

"Steve put me in charge of finding the leak here in the Tower," Barnes repeats firmly. "I was following a lead."

"You're the reason Rumlow's strike team was there," Tony clarifies.

"Yes."

"Do you know why Cap was on that building?" Tony asks.

"No," Barnes replies. "I was following a lead."

Muscle spasm in his jaw.

He's lying.

And he's angry that he has to lie about it.

He knows that Cap was meeting with his undercover.

"What lead?" Wade walks around the couch. Approaching from the other side.

Flanking him.

"That was between me and Steve," Barnes chokes up again.

"Steve wouldn't authorize using Shield agents to stalk himself to track down the Tower leak," I say calmly.

"Maybe you didn't know him that well," Barnes snarls at me, splitte flying out of his mouth. Like a snake.

"YOU ARE A FUCKING LIAR!" Wade unhinges. Completely. "ROGERS and I had a mission today to pull our undercover out of hiding! But you probably already fucking knew that, huh? With Rumlow sucking your dick for you? Right?"

Barnes shakes his head. "This isn't about me. This is about Steve. He's _dead._ We have to track down the shooter…"

"Clint's all over that," Sam interjects. "Let's not go Neeson yet and jump on the revenge train. Maybe one of us is the next target."

"No, please, tell us more about what you've been up to," Wade snaps.

"You know who the informant is?" Tony asks. "If you were watching him all along. You must have seen who it was."

"Rumlow was there to surveil," Barnes insists. "He was reporting to me. And he didn't report much. All I knew was Steve was there and he was killed."

Silence.

"If anything," Barnes adds heatedly, "Maybe your special little mole for the Vulture did him in. Maybe he's been a criminal too long. Maybe he was won over."

"For once, I agree with Barnes," Sam raises the bottle over his head. "Dude just seems way too conveniently _right there_ when it happens!"

Wade gets into Barnes's face.

I consider pulling him back. But I don't.

"ROGERS FUCKING SAID HE TOLD ONE PERSON TO FOLLOW THE VULTURE," Wade shouts in his face. "AND THEN YOU PUT SHIELD AGENTS ON THE GROUND?"

"I was just doing my job," Barnes repeats quietly.

"That's not your FUCKING JOB YOU MOTHER-DUCKING QUACK NUGGET!" Wade grasps a fistfull of his shirt, pushing back at him. "YOU'RE THE FUCKING LEAK! You're a FUCKING ICEBERG IN THIS SHIP!"

"I'm the leak?!" Barnes snaps, pushing his fists away from him all too easily. "You think I would leak information that would HARM my best friend? My ONLY friend?" He shoves Wade's shoulders back. "Where the hell were you when this happened? Huh? Maybe it's you! You were unaccounted for! I bet none of your movements have been logged for days, huh? How convenient for you!"

Wade grins cattily at him.

"Weren't you supposed to be his _undying_ partner?" Barnes continues. Wade's smile instantly disappears. "So you could take all the bullets for him? Wasn't that the deal? Why'd you have to be so fucking useless that it gets Steve killed, huh?"

Wade clocks him right in the neck with an open handed jab, nearly snapping Barnes's neck. Barnes flies back against the wall, rights himself way too quickly, and lunges back for him.

Tony thrusts his left arm between them, catching Barnes in the crook of his elbow, hauling him backwards. But Barnes cuffs him right in his forearm, hard enough to break a bone. It's an arm that's continued to bother Tony, and while he's never talked about it, it's the first thing to go into a sling after a fight. He's always favored that arm.

I catch Wade before he can fly at him again, spitting and cursing and letting out a torrent of words I can barely compute coming out of anyone's mouth.

Tony jerks his left arm back out of Barnes's reach.

Vision suddenly materializes right behind Barnes, one hand grasping the back of his shirt, the other thrusting his fist out and under Barnes's arm, keeping him from pushing forward any further.

Wade fights me like a wet cat as I drag him back. "Easy, easy!" I shout in his ear. "This is not helping!"

"It'll fucking help me! I'll help me a whole fucking lot!" Wade screams at Barnes. "I'm going to fucking kill you, you self-righteous prick!"

"Oh noooo," I hear Rhodes say in a stage whisper. The level of sarcasm is unreal. "Oh no, stop him, don't let him..."

Wanda is at my side, grabbing Wade's other arm. "This will NOT BRING HIM BACK," she shouts, her accent thicker than usual. I notice it gets this way when she's upset. Her arms and fingers flicker with red pulses of light.

She and Vision share a look over the tension.

Barnes relents, and so does Wade. Vision and I slowly let go of our respective bulldogs.

"Look I appreciate your magic, Mrs. Weasley," Wade turns and gives Wanda a look. "But I'll hit anyone who holds me back from a fight, got it?"

"You will not lay a finger on her," Vision says in a commanding voice that sounds something like a cross between Jarvis and… I don't know, God or something.

"Jesus! I was kidding!" Wade looks at Wanda. Then he whispers. "Unless you want to fight sometime. That could be fun, right?"

"Damn you, Wade," Tony snaps, cradling his arm to his chest. "For once in your life, pretend you don't have a _mouth."_

"Been, there, done that, box office failure," he says, raising both hands as a sign of good faith. He takes a few steps back. Glances at me.

"You okay over there, buddy?" he asks in a pseudo-dad voice.

My heart is pounding so hard that, for a weird moment, I'm afraid the Hulk is going to make an appearance.

But he's been dormant for so long… refusing to come out even when I NEEDED him… it would be weird for him to decide _now_ was a good time.

When I wasn't even the angriest one here.

"Stop, talking," I choke out. "And _you'll_ be okay."

He shuts his mouth, understanding my threat. Temporarily.

"Your undercover agent probably knows something," Barnes steps out of Vision's reach, giving him a look of utter contempt. "He was there when Steve died and then he _ran away._ I want his name. I want to bring him in for questioning."

"Why don't you suck my dick instead?" Wade exclaims.

"Who is it?" Barnes repeats.

Wade grins at him. He looks like a skinned carcass. "I don't remember."

"Liar!" Barnes shouts.

"No one calls me a liar!" Wade answers, stepping for him again. "Especially when I am lying!"

Vision quickly steps between them, one hand held out to both to keep them from going any further. "That is enough," he says. "Or I put a fist _through_ your lungs." He looks at Tony. "Stark," he says calmly. "This is your call."

Tony's eyes are black with anger. Grief. His whole arm shakes as he points at Wade. "Go home, Wade," he commands, his voice tired. Giving up.

"What?" Wade asks, blinking.

"I said GO HOME," Tony repeats. "Go home to Vanessa. You're no longer helping here."

"How long?" Wade barks.

"As long as it takes for you to calm down," I insert.

"Then _auf wiedersehen_ forever, mother cluckers!" Wade brandishes his hands like a conductor to the rest of the room, and blows a kiss to Rhodes.

"Sorry no one remembers to give you any lines," he says sweetly.

Rhodes looks up from where he sits on the couch, nursing his generously large glass of scotch. He gives him an exhausted, two finger salute. Just another day at the zoo for him, except for the part where a major player is killed. But he's a soldier. He's been trained since day one to expect casualties. He has the stones to deal with this type of scenario more than any of us have.

Wade then steps up to Tony's face, having absolutely no boundaries or personal bubbles whatsoever. "Don't you fucking give him anything," he whispers, loud enough for Barnes to hear. He turns and gives Barnes a catty sneer over his shoulder, and turns back to Tony's face. "Not a single. Fucking. Thing."

Tony only jolts his chin. A simple agreement. Tony knows who the undercover agent is, and he will not tell anyone.

Even if Barnes asks.

A good person would have stopped asking long ago, anyway.

Wade slams the door so hard behind him that the room - as big as it is - rattles.

Wanda pats my shoulder gently, moving back to the counter. Vision follows along behind her, his feet not making any sound. In fact I don't think they're actually touching the floor.

"I need to talk to him," Barnes repeats. Pleadingly. His voice breaks again. "With… with Steve… being gone… he's the only person who was there. Who knows the whole story. I need to talk to him."

"No," Stark shakes his head, his voice - and heart - hardened against Barnes. The outsider. Who will always be the outsider. "You _want_ to talk to him. There's a difference."

"So, I'm officially calling it," Rhodes sets his glass down on the coffee table with a clatter. "Everyone's hurting and grieving. Everyone is being _toxic._ Take a walk."

"Who are, uh, you talking to?" I ask.

"EVERYONE," repeats Rhodes. "Take some time - get a drink - punch something, I don't care. Get out of this room. Come back when you're ready to have some civilized conversation. Now is not the time to turn on each other."

"I'm taking this though," Sam holds up his bottle. He exits through the same door, not slamming it.

Tony looks at Rhodes. "Thanks."

"Yeah, man," Rhodes reaches over, stops before touching his elbow. "Maybe, uh, get that in a sling. Just for an hour or two."

"Hm," Tony replies. Rhodes leaves through a different door.

Vision puts his gold and magenta synthesized arm around Wanda, and they leave together. Clint squeezes by them at the door, muttering apologies. He does a double take at Vision's hand on Wanda's hip.

Shaking it off, holding out a tablet in his hands, He loads a blueprint onto the screen. "So I was thinking I'd like to get out there myself, examine the rooftop of the building by the…" He notices the empty room. "Where is everyone?"

"Taking a walk," I say with a shrug. "Cooling off."

"Why? What happened?"

"Wade accused Barnes of being the mole and attacked him," Tony replies. "It got a little ugly."

Clint leans against the door frame, his hands around the tablet relaxing, letting them fall by his side. "Do you think he's right?"

Tony gestures helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. He's the only one I don't trust."

"He's the only one that no one trusts," I correct. "Nat's been onto something from the beginning."

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you before," Tony interrupts. "I brushed aside your suspicions and… maybe if I hadn't..."

"It's not your fault, Tony," Clint cuts him off in a low voice. "I know I'm speaking for Cap _right now._ He would say it. And it would be the truth. It's not your fault."

Tony looks away quickly. "Damnit," he whispers. "I'm - I'm going to take that walk."

He stalks out of the main central area, takes the stairs that curves over the bar, up to the open balcony that edges the whole room. He uses one of the exits that will take him straight to the lab.

"So when is Nat getting back?" Clint asks me.

I shrug. "How would I know?"

Clint shrugs right back, sarcastically. "You're her boyfriend, aren't you? Boyfriends always know."

I open my mouth, shut it again. "Ah…"

Clint taps the tablet agitatedly in his hand. Starts marching purposefully to the bar. "I'm getting a drink. You want one? D'you drink? I never asked. Never thought about it."

"I'll have a drink."

"What are the chances of the Hulk coming out if you do?"

"Um. Uh, zero," I respond awkwardly, sliding into a stool.

"Good. Scotch or whiskey?"

"Whiskey."

Clint pours us matching drinks. Pushes the glass to me, waits till I pick it up.

"To Steve," he says huskily.

I clink my glass against his. "To Steve."

...

* * *

 **Hunting - Wade Wilson**

* * *

...

"There's got to be more," I say.

Kevin, the unfortunate man of having a combined job description of medical examiner and mortician, shakes his head sadly. "There's not."

I smash my face against the window, looking into the morgue. I've been banned from entering the morgue a long time ago. Let's just say dead Hydra bodies do not puppets make, and no one appreciates that special strain of humor.

"You can't come in here," Kevin reminds tiredly.

"Look again," I bark.

There's a mess of blood… and Steve… on the table, but I'm trying not to look at the details too much.

"Only one."

"You're telling me you only found one phone on his body?" I snap.

Kevin holds up a blue-gloved hand again, Steve's personal cellphone glinting in the sickly med examiner's light. "This phone. Right here."

"Listen, he carried an extra burner phone. For our undercover."

"It's just the one."

"Damnit…" I slam a fist into the door. The assistant jumps, and Kevin frowns. That means that Steve wasn't carrying the phone on him when he died. It could be at his house. Maybe I should break into his house?

My phone rings.

"Avenger roleplay hotline," I answer. "We offer a special on spandex."

"Wade," Tony Stark replies. "You know I'm not actually benching you, right?"

"Figured as much, Papa Bear. What's your play?"

"I didn't want Barnes to know you'd still be hanging around."

"I got a bigger problem than that nutsack, boss. That burner phone we've been using is missing. I can't call Peter."

"Shit." Tony takes a deep breath. "Listen to me. New mission. Okay? _I'll_ get the kid."

"Chief, I hear you. But if I can't call him…"

"I swear to god I'll do whatever it takes. I will get him tonight."

"It's cute when you're adopting puppies like this." I snap. "I'm glad we've just now conveniently figured out that you knew who the fucking kid was all along. It saves me from plot twist responsibility later on."

"Do you trust me, Wade?"

"About as far as I can throw a cream cheese spreader, which just so you know, is really not that far. Short answer, yes. I trust you like I trust all my lovers."

"We're not - nevermind," Tony sighs. "I swear Barnes won't get shit from me."

"That warms my cockles, but what the sulfur-loving-hell am I supposed to be doing?"

"You know there's a sniper."

"Why did it seem like I was the only one who seemed to understand that?"

"You do what you do best. Go hunting."

I grin. "Do I have diplomatic immunity?"

"I'm telling you. Find the sniper. Do what the rest of us can't. And this conversation never happened."

"Aye aye, sir," I reply, wincing a little last-minute. Maybe captain references aren't my best lines to use right now. "Get me whatever info you can. Happy trails."

"Godspeed."

"I'm faster."

…

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT:** It's about time for Bucky and Peter to be formally introduced, don't you think?

* * *

 **Reader Replies**

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TheScottishLegend - Thank you so much! I am so glad you liked the twists lol. Including Grant Ward felt natural because he is one of the deadliest snipers in the MCU (er, TV version of the MCU). Thank you so much for your wonderful review! (hugs!)

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	20. Trust is a Funny Thing

**Warnings:** Grief, depression, implications of self harm and suicide, discussions of death. We've got some dark stuff here folks. Take care if easily triggered!

* * *

…

 **CHAPTER TWENTY - Trust is a Funny Thing**

...

* * *

 **Official Meeting - _Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

I walk home slowly, my body aching so deeply, I'm tempting to just lie down on the sidewalk. I don't stop once, I just keep moving. Sometimes walking right into traffic accidentally, hopping out of the way of incoming vehicles that honk.

I get back to the garage and lock the door behind me.

I stare at the empty room for a minute. Longer than a minute, too long for this to be normal. I stare at the sink, the shelves, the hose that I jerry-rigged through a hook in the ceiling over the sloped corner in the garage so that the water runs for the drain.

That seems like a good idea - I'm covered in blood.

I should shower.

I don't really know if this is shock, like the grief kind. Not the medical kind. I guess if it was, that would explain why I can't stop shivering. Or why maybe taking an ice-cold shower isn't a good idea, but I do it anyway. There's no hot water in this building, so I have to get what I get.

After my shower I'm really cold, polar-bear-plunge-challenge cold. I change into clean jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, socks.

But I can't warm up.

I empty a can of tomato soup into a single-serve pot and stick it on the old hotplate I commandeered. While I wait for it to boil, I brush my teeth, shave.

I fold my small load from the laundromat last week. An extra pair of jeans, sweatpants, two more t-shirts, underwear, socks, and one more hoodie. One of the T-shirts smells gross and I can't figure out why. I washed it with soap and everything.

I'm sure Aunt May would know exactly what to tell me for how to fix it.

I finish folding and line them up in the empty shelf where Uncle Ben would have kept bottles of car oil, transmission fluid, and antifreeze. There's a pair of jumper cables sitting here, an empty cap from a bottle long thrown away.

I eat a bowl of hot soup and finally feel the chills start to leave. My chest stops trembling, and I hold the bowl to warm my fingers.

When I'm done, I put it in the sink, and look at the cupboard. I am getting low on the soup. I need get more of these if I am going to be stuck here.

And maybe things I could eat on the go… like… peanuts. Apples.

I never did get to go grocery shopping like I had told Schultz and Davis earlier.

Am I going to have money for this…? What if the money stops?

I don't know how payroll works for an Avenger. Cap just had me pull cash from the fake trust account for things like food. Toilet paper. Toothpaste.

But who was putting the money in the account to start with?

What if Deadpool thinks I killed Cap and erases my mission reports? I don't see why he wouldn't - Cap died, and I ran.

If he does, then I'm stuck with the Vulture. No rescue. Relying only on the one hundred bucks here, one hundred bucks there for bad jobs. Like collecting late supply payments, or standing guard while someone else on the crew does something awful.

Now I'm the one doing those awful things.

But I can't keep doing them?! Not if they're no longer Avengers-sanctioned. Then I'm just what I pretend to be… a criminal.

Why hasn't Wade called me yet?

Why hasn't he… why didn't he land… maybe he did. Maybe I didn't see him. Maybe I left too quickly, missed my shot. Or maybe he turned around and went the other way. Blames me and left me there because I thought I deserved it…

Maybe I do…

I have to get out of this, on my own, if I must. If I can find out where they hid Aunt May, it's not too late to find her. She and I can go hide in Italy just like she suggested from the beginning.

Some… great-grandmother with a hidden room?

I let out a surprised laugh. But then I can't catch my breath again.

I fall against my makeshift bed, slide to the floor, and hug my knees. My back hits the rubber tire behind me repetitively, I try to hold myself still, and I can't, I can't - I can't - I can't - I can't...

It takes me a long time to stop hyperventilating. When I do, I crawl up into the bed and fall asleep.

I sleep through most of the day. A sleep that always feels half awake, centuries long but still not restful at all.

...

When I wake up again, and check the time, it's early evening.

I leave the garage, like a dead man walking. My body is stiff, but the super-healing took care of whatever horrible brick-burns and dislocated fingers I gave myself from plunging my hands through the walls of the building to stop myself from dying right alongside Steve Rogers. Nothing had broken, though I feel ghost-pains from the arm that the Vulture broke. Weird.

The pedestrian side of the Pulaski is oddly crowded tonight. I don't think much of it until I hear whispers. People looking at their phones. Hushed conversations. Someone is crying.

I sneak a glance at a phone screen as I walk by.

BBC BREAKING NEWS… AMERICAN HERO…

The horizon still bears a small stripe of light, that pale greenish hue just before twilight. The rest of the sky is turning dark blue, the skyscrapers beginning to glitter with interior lights blinking through the windows.

Flags at half-mast in the distance.

They're at half-mast for Captain America. The world knows already. Shield didn't take long to blast the news everywhere. So much for secret agencies. Leeches.

I take the ferry instead of walking further north to the bridge. There's no hurry, but on the off chance that Michelle gets off work early, I want to be there. Apologize for not calling her right away. How awful I must seem… to… to… well.

Having a sort of sleepover with her and then giving her zero communication has to be one of the number one things on a list of horrible things I've done that deserves a break up.

She gets off at midnight from a partial night shift. She's been trying to get her teachers in school and the staff management at the hospital to work better together for scheduling. She's exhausted getting stuck with working nights just because other students snagged up the afternoon shifts first.

She crawls into bed at one or two AM every morning after studying, and then has a class Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at seven AM.

And yet she still found time for me. Without ever truly complaining, only joking about how much her studies are killing her.

We did a lot of talking that night. More talking than I'm sure most people do when they're making out with someone for the first time like that.

She really opened up. Talked about how school was really going, which wasn't good. There's a lot of pressure from her parents to do it perfectly. Their interpretation of perfection feels like a death sentence for her.

She told me she had wanted to go to school in Virginia and study classic literature. Maybe minor in studio art. But she did what her parents wanted instead - a far cry from the independent, fuck-you-world attitude she that worked so hard to build throughout high school.

When the time came to stick it to them, to tell them what she really wanted - at the last minute, she crumbled. She accepted the financial deal they offered of helping to pay if she did the major they wanted, at the school they picked.

She caved, and she feels like her soul has been slowly dying ever since.

"Although, when you popped back into my life… that was… unexpected..." she had whispered into my hair. While I showered her neck with gentle kisses. "If I had left New York… I probably would never have seen you again."

"I wouldn't want you to stay on account of me," I had said, pulling back and giving her a look. Squeezing her hand encouragingly. "If you want to transfer… change schools… you should do it. You should be happy."

"Fine," she had giggled. "Then you can tell my parents."

"Your dad might kill me."

"Fine, I'll tell them... " she said, but she didn't mean it. "One of these days."

"I'll go with you. If you want."

...

I sit on the bench outside the emergency room entrance and patiently clasp my hands in my lap. I lose track of the time when I bend my head down, hide my face in my hands, and weep.

No one stops to interrupt a weeping boy sitting outside of a hospital. They assume someone I knew died inside the emergency room just now. No one's the wiser.

I hear feet scuffle by every so often, the loud siren of the ambulance pulling into the drive.

When I stop, I brace my elbows on my knees, clasp my hands, tuck my forehead against my arms, and think. I don't fall asleep, but I feel like I am in that same state… the twilight zone of drifting off, confused by the emotions that would never let me relax enough.

I play the moment he fell over and over and over again.

The way his limbs fluttered and jerked up from the gravity, like flags snapping and tugging at their masts when a wind is too strong.

Stars and stripes… that was always his thing.

I feel Michelle's hand gently press into my scalp, her fingers sliding through my hair. Combing the wayward layers back from my forehead.

Then she kneels down in front of me, one slender hand curled over my knee.

"You saw the news," she whispers. Trying to confirm the state I'm in. She's not sure why I look like I'm about to die myself, but she suspects. She's always been so smart.

"I was there when it happened," I confess, the horror too… too unimaginable to be real. "I think it was my fault it happened."

"No, no, Peter, no - no, Peter, no. It wasn't your fault." MJ says as if she herself were witnessing his fall from the building in slow motion. "NO. Don't think like that. It wasn't your fault."

She drops her bag, sits beside me on the bench, wraps her arms around me so tightly that it hurts every ache I possess. She pushes her face into mine, taking captive every sense. Pressing her lips to my ear. "Not your fault," she whispers. I feel the vibration of her voice in my skull, right down to my stomach.

"I don't know what to do," I whisper. "I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I don't know where to go. I can't sign the Accords where I'm… I told you about the… I don't… know… how…"

"I don't know what to do either," she admits, in her bright, unsure, but firm tone. "I won't lie to you. I don't know enough. I don't fucking know how to help you." She is nearly strangling me now, arms around my neck, pressing her lips to my forehead, cheek, and chin. "But I promise you this," she says. "I'm not letting you go through this alone."

"I am alone."

"No. You're not." I relax into her chest, hiding my face. She continues stroking my hair.

"I am alone," I repeat.

"I'm right here."

"I don't know how to get out."

"Peter…"

"MJ, I'm stuck."

"I'm not letting you go until you believe me, Peter Parker." She says. "You're not alone."

"Michelle," I whisper hoarsely, so quietly I don't even know if she can hear me. "The only way out of this is if they kill me."

"That's bullshit."

"I don't want to die," I sob into my hand, and she only holds me harder. As tightly as she can. It's not close enough. I wish she could absorb me… make me disappear. "I'm scared."

"I know," she whispers. "I'm scared too. Just take deep breaths with me. I'm not letting you go. Deep breaths, Parker. I've got you right now."

My cell rings.

 _UNKNOWN NUMBER._

"What… what the..." I whisper.

"What?"

"It's… it's…" I don't know how much to tell her. How much would put her in danger. "This is my phone for contacting…" I pause. "Um. Cap - Captain." I add in a heated whisper. "...and Deadpool. But this isn't their number. I don't know who this is. They're the only ones who are supposed to call me on this phone."

Michelle blinks.

Opens her mouth, shuts it again.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

"Oh," she says. Then her eyes look like they're about to pop. "OH."

Still ringing.

"You should answer it," she urges. "Someone has to have your number. Maybe it's… another Avenger. Maybe it's your aunt."

I press answer.

Hold the phone up to my ear. My heart rate is skyrocketing. My chest hurts. Maybe this time I'm finally having that heart attack I keep imagining.

I don't say hello, and no one else does, either.

Silence - no, not silence. A breath in, and a breath out.

Too low-pitched to be Wade Wilson.

Someone else.

I end the call and look at Michelle with hopelessness.

"Who was it?"

"I don't know… they didn't say." I look around nervously. "Maybe we're… maybe I'm not safe here. Maybe I should go."

She stands up and holds out her hand. "Come with me," she says.

"Where?" I ask.

"Back to my dorm."

"Oh… but… I should probably…"

"I'm not leaving you on a cement bench outside of a hospital like this." She shakes her head firmly. "What you're saying - right now - Peter - it's not safe. You shouldn't be left alone like this. And you're crazy if you think I would."

I tilt my head and force myself to smile. "It's very logical when you put it that way."

"Don't be cute with me. This is serious. If a person says they think death is the only escape, they're in a dangerous place - mentally. Do you understand me?" She touches my face gently. "I need to know you are understanding what I am saying to you. I hear you. And I'm not going to leave you by yourself."

But I wasn't talking about suicide. I was talking about being hunted down and killed by Vulture. Scared that it'll happen, no matter where I turn.

Aside from the fact that I think I should have died in Captain America's place because I deserve it, I'm not going to do anything to make that happen. That's not me.

"I understand," I say softly. "But I'm not going to hurt myself. That's not what I meant - anyhow. You… you cheer me up." I try to smile. "See? All better."

She gives me the courtesy of a hum, a pretend laugh, but it fades quickly. "You don't need to try and put on a good face," she whispers, touching my face again with her hand. "Not with me. Not ever."

"Okay."

She holds out her hands. It takes some effort to place mine in her own, and she hoists me to my feet. I feel weak, hungry, sleepless. The shock still firmly pounding in my chest and in my veins.

"I've got you," she says, pulling me close.

"Okay."

"Not alone."

"Okay," I say again. She begins to lead me away from the hospital. Hand in hand, we walk down the darkening sidewalk together. Her fingers slide so effortlessly between my own. Puzzle pieces.

"Hold on," I say, tugging on her hand. "Before we… uh… go any further." I pull the phone back out. "I can't… I can't not check this out. I should call back. Just… in case."

She nods. "If you're sure."

"Yes. I'd be an idiot not to. It could be Tony Stark or something. I know… Steve trusted him. I can too."

I click on the unknown number in received calls.

 _RINGING._

 **...**

* * *

 **Beyond the Grave - Bucky Barnes**

* * *

...

I watch like a hawk until I see Rumlow's strike team enter the Tower. When I get to the medical floor, I stand outside the door that slides open and shut like a spaceship, a small window looking inside to the lab's entry.

With our tempers flying too high to be functional, everyone is still on time-out. People are hiding, crying, drinking, punching the daylights out of sandbags in the gyms.

They are waiting for news.

I am not waiting for news, but for things.

"What are you waiting for?" Kevin asks impatiently, sliding open the door briefly.

"His personal effects," I answer firmly. "I want them."

"Wade already looked for the burner phone," Kevin sighs.

I blink at him. "Okay? And…?"

"It's not here."

I feel a slow, curling pit of dread in my stomach. Of course Wade beat me here, one more thing that he screws up for me before he goes on furlough.

But then that fades away. So what if the burner phone isn't there? I don't want the undercover. Not right now.

I'm here for my friend. My best friend. And I want his bag of personal effects. I know I have to beat the rest of them to this - Steve was my friend first. Kevin doesn't know the difference. We're all his bosses.

"That's Wade's business," I respond coldly. "I'm here for whatever Steve had on him when he passed. I need to make sure of something."

"You're welcome to wait until I'm finished," Kevin answers. No wonder he is in such a bad mood and making me wait. Wade got to him first. "I have to… clean this stuff. It's a biohazard."

"I'll be right here," I growl.

It takes several hours. Vision and Wanda walk by me twice, doing laps. Asking me if I've heard anything yet.

I shake my head each time. Nothing yet.

Both of them are surprisingly neutral and sympathetic.

I text Natasha.

I'm guessing you heard the news.

Call me when you can.

I don't even consider the fact I haven't had anything to eat since this morning. Only a faint growl of my stomach tells me it's long past mealtimes. But I'm just a robot, aren't I? I'm programmed in a way that prevents me from suicide. Something in the trigger words protect Hydra's investment. I can hurt myself, certainly. My blood-red eyes and purple nose attest to that. Maybe I can starve myself out of the equation. Stop eating, waste away. Hydra can't work with a skeletal man too weak to walk. Maybe that's the manipulation to escape from this that I never realized - never tried, before.

It's not that I want… want death. If it came down to it. I wouldn't want that.

I just don't want to go to war with the Winter Soldier anymore. I don't want to lose against him. To lose is to forfeit. To win - or, essentially, kill myself - would be to protect others from him.

But maybe if I can weaken myself past the point of the Winter Soldier being any danger to them, then I can tell them everything. Come clean.

It's late, close to midnight, even, when Kevin hands me a bag of effects.

I accept the bag and I find a dark, unused office. Empty cupboards and drawers. A scratched out name on the door-plate says H. Cho. She moved her office upstairs to the labs, and she's not working today. Though it wouldn't surprise me if she came in anyway once she saw the news. Maybe some of those tissue-repair synthesized flesh will be used to fix up Steve for a funeral. I hope Kevin and Helen compare notes on this.

I can't imagine Steve looking this way - so shattered - for a funeral.

I shut and lock the door behind me, turn on the light, and sit in the chair coated in a thin layer of dust.

The bag has a small brown notebook, a cell phone, a wallet, and car keys. All in various forms of disrepair, whether by overuse, or the fall, I'm not sure.

I open the wallet and look through. His driver's license, fifty dollars in cash. His VA card. A coupon clipped out of a newspaper for shaving cream. Only Steve would still use cash and look for bargains on personal grooming.

I drag my thumb briefly over his ID photograph, my pain dripping so listlessly and hopelessly through my lungs, down my spine. Over my knuckles, which ache, as if I have arthritis. Despite my age, I don't.

One feels grief in the strangest places.

I open the notebook and read through a list he was keeping.

* * *

 _I Love Lucy (Television)_

 _Moon Landing_

 _Berlin Wall (Up + Down)_

 _Steve Jobs (Apple)_

 _Disco_

 _Thai Food_

 _Star Wars/Trek_

 _Nirvana (Band)_

 _Rocky (Rocky II?)_

 _Troubleman (Soundtrack)_

* * *

I swallow a sob and turn the page, skimming through notes. Sketches. He was always a talented sketch artist, and I don't know that anyone except me knew this. He kept some of his drawings from wartime framed by his desk… the monkey riding the unicycle was my favorite.

There's more recent sketches, ones I haven't seen before. A column on a nearby building, a streetlamp. A design for a new shield, one shaped more like a surfer's board than a perfect circle.

Wasted creativity.

Never having the right chances or the right time to explore other talents.

I nearly close the book, but one more note catches my eye.

 _VULTURE. CIA INFORMANT = PROTECTED FOR INTEL_

 _EVERETT ROSS_

I need a physical movement to keep myself from unleashing the Winter Soldier right then and there. I close the notebook. I set it down on the dark desk. I grip the edges of the desk with both hands, knuckles turning white.

I count to ten. Slowly.

So the Vulture's playing both sides. Selling weapons to Hydra and information to the CIA. I guess I should not have been surprised, but I am.

I wonder if Everett Ross knows that I am the Winter Soldier. Knew, or did nothing. Or was never told - and my double life is still safe.

Does the Vulture know I'm the Winter Soldier?

I don't think he does.

He never mentioned it. Pierce never brought it up. Neither did I.

I have to believe that if the CIA knew who I was, they would have arranged to have me assassinated long ago. I've taken out too many high-ranking US officials for them to not take immediate action. Even if it were JFK alone, I think Everett Ross himself would pull the trigger.

So that means Vulture might be feeding a lot of information to Ross, but not enough about me to make it dangerous. Not yet, anyway.

I open the phone. The screen is a spider-web of shattered glass, chunks missing from the outer edges. Dark, dried flecks that could be blood. I look at the last numbers dialed.

 _Wade_

 _Sharon_

 _Bucky_

 _Bucky_

 _Tony_

 _Wade_

 _Sharon_

It's weird seeing my own name as a frequently dialed contact. Especially because no one calls me Bucky here. Everyone calls me Barnes. Even Nat calls me Barnes.

I scroll to received calls instead.

 _Sharon (missed)_

 _Sharon (missed)_

 _Sharon (missed)_

 _Sharon (missed)_

 _A 002 V (answered)_

 _Wade (answered)_

 _Bucky (answered)_

 _Wade (answered)_

 _Wade (missed)_

 _Tony (missed)_

 _A 002 V (answered)_

 _A 002 V (answered)_

I search through his contacts briefly, and see that he has several nondescript numbers saved like this: A 001 V, A 003 V. The last time 003 was called was over two and a half years ago. 001 was three months ago.

002 was received less than an hour before he died.

Holy shit. That could be the undercover.

That's why there's no outgoing calls to the undercover on this thing, but received calls - it doesn't matter that Wade can't find the damn burner phone. Steve was probably having calls that went to the burner rerouted to his personal cell. That way if Wade was on duty and missed it, it would go right back to Steve.

Hell, maybe Steve destroyed the burner phone before he died to protect the informant, assuming it was his last day, and made sure the line was still forwarding.

That means Wade has shit.

And I could have everything.

I press the call button and hold the phone up slowly to my ear. After several rings, I consider giving up. It's not like I want to leave a message.

There's a click.

The call goes through, but there's no answer.

I listen for breathing on the other line. I can hear it, unrhythmically layered - no, that's two people. Listening and breathing over each other. Background sounds of a cityscape - wind, and cars from a busy road not too far away.

Interesting.

I'm sure they can hear me too. I'm heavier built, and I didn't think to not say anything - but when faced with the choice, suddenly, I have nothing to say. Nothing to ask.

Grief has a disquieting way of taking away words.

The call ends.

I set the phone down on the desk as if it burns my hand. I start placing the items one by one back into the bag, determined to give it back to the medical examiner. There's nothing here I can use. The rest of the team would find a way to be angry with me for keeping Steve's phone. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it has nothing to do with the informant…

 _A 002 V CALLING_

I grab the phone again, nearly missing the button. I answer the call, hold it to my ear.

Nothing.

"Yes?" I say quietly.

"You called first," says a male voice. The same from the construction lot that I fought. Definitely the undercover. "Who are you?"

"It's you," I exclaim, pretending not to hear. "You're all right. Thank God." I wasn't sure if I was answering the phone as Bucky Barnes, or the Winter Soldier, until I opened my mouth. I'm somewhere in between.

Affecting my voice to sound more concerned, more ignorant. Though my curiosity and fear does not need to be faked.

"When Wade couldn't find you, we feared the worst," I say, trying this lie on for size. "We were all very worried something had happened to you. We thought we had lost you for sure."

A pause.

"Who are you?" he asks again. I really don't have the capacities for lies right now.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. They call me Bucky. I'm… a friend. A friend of the Captain."

"Oh..." His voice is confused. "I've - I've heard of you. Mr. Barnes. Like. Historically? In books? But…"

"It's a long story," I respond. "I'll tell you all about it sometime."

"How do you have my number?" he asks. "Only Deadpool should have it, since Captain..."

His voice cracks, speaking to both his youth and his own sorrow.

He's young. Really young. The kid…?

This narrows it down on the Vulture's crew to less than four people. No, three. Marcus, Quinn, and Peter.

I'd stake my life on only one of them.

"I was Steve's - Captain Roger's closest friend, I joined the Avengers not long ago," I say kindly. "I will likely be handling his operations now."

There is a slight murmur in the background.

It sounds like a girl saying fuck this dude, he's lying.

I couldn't possibly guess who that is.

"Let me talk to Wade Wilson to confirm this," he's pleading with me. As if I already have received undeniable orders from Pierce and have a gun pointed to his forehead. He sounds terrified.

"He went home for the night," I answer cryptically.

I hear him suck in a breath of hurt, confusion, that Wade isn't trying to call him right now.

"We're all very - he's very… you know," I say. "I don't know if he will be in tomorrow. If he is, I'll tell him you'd like to speak with him." I pause. "I understand that today was to be your last day."

"Yes."

"The best thing for you to do then would be to come in."

"Cap had some elaborate pick up plan…"

"And it didn't go well, did it?" I cut him off.

"No…"

I don't blame this person, not really. I'm sure Steve had his reasons in order to give the kid the best chance at rebooting his life. And now that I know the Vulture is a CIA informant, it all makes sense. He probably knew the Vulture could walk - again - even if finally arrested and brought to trial. If he did, he would find his old crew-member-turn-Avenger and make his life a living hell. His very own arch nemesis. Maybe you can't be a hero without one, but Steve would go the extra length to stage a better exit. Fake the kid's death, put him in the clear.

It makes tactical sense.

Which is why I suggest the opposite. Or at least, the words that come out of my mouth do. There are times where I'm unable to tell if I am purposefully trying to put someone in harms way, or if I just have bad ideas. Where do I begin, and when do I end? A broken nose can only distract for so long, the Winter Soldier comes and goes as he pleases.

I guess now I understand Dr. Banner better than I ever did.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"I'm not going to tell you that."

I can ping your phone, you little rat, I think.

"That's fine. I understand, I really do," I say. "You don't have to reveal your location to me - you can come here. Get here in whatever way you deem best."

"You want me to just up and leave and take a train to Avengers tower," he repeats doubtfully. "That sounds like…"

"Too simple?"

"A bad idea," he responds firmly. "What if I'm followed?"

"That's your decision," I say kindly. "I won't force you into anything that makes you feel unsafe. Okay?"

A pause. "Um. Okay."

"Listen. With everything going on… it isn't safe for you to call this number anymore. This is Steve's personal phone, and it's got to go back into evidence. There will be an investigation."

"But Wade should have a phone. How is my number on Cap's phone?"

"The phone you used before - it's missing. Anyone could have it. Someone in the Vulture's crew or Shield might have stolen it, and Wade doesn't have it. I'm sure Steve was just doing what he thought was best - rerouting calls to his personal cell unless the other one ever went missing. To keep you safe."

He doesn't reply.

"Let me give you my number, okay? That way if you need to reach someone in Avengers Tower… day or night… you have support. Just like Steve would have wanted."

There's a pause.

"Text me from the number," he says.

Then he hangs up on me.

I sit back in the chair, heaving a deep breath. I save his number in my phone just like Steve did. A 002 V. Then I send him a text, of my name. Just my name.

JAMES BARNES

After a pause, the tiny letters pop up that simply change the status to _read._

I delete his contact information from Steve's phone. I double check all the voicemails, every text. Every received call from him.

Now it looks like Steve never spoke with him on this phone. It's contained with the burner, just how it should be. Wade will never know.

Then I slide Steve's phone back into the plastic bag.

It took me weeks and weeks of trying to needle my way into the privileged operations of Steve and Wade running this guy, and the only way I get to speak with him directly is because my best friend has been killed.

One can never truly have what they want. There is no such thing as perfect results. One small thing can be checked off a list, but the cost is more than I can bear.

"Jesus Christ," I whisper angrily, folding my hands together and pressing my forehead into them. "Jesus… Steve… I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. Please forgive me. If you can hear me. Please forgive me."

When I've calmed down, I give the bag back to Kevin, much to his confusion.

"There's no clues about his killer in his possessions as I hoped," I say lightly.

He accepts this explanation without a second thought.

…

* * *

...

* * *

 **Dear readers,**

 **Guys, there's so much dark shit coming up and I don't want you to hate me because I've grown very attached to you. just remember this book has a happy ending and unlike Deadpool I definitely would not lie to you. Haha. It's just gonna get worse before it gets better...**

 **ALSO DID YOU SEE THE SPIDER-MAN FAR FROM HOME TRAILER?!**

 **Did you notice that big ass check that Happy brought in was signed by Pepper Potts?!**

 **Isn't Jake Gyllenhaal like, super amazing?!**

 **Go watch it if you haven't seen it yet and LET'S DISCUSS.**

 **Also I have to shout out my amazing beta Crystal, the QueenofCrystallopia, who for REAL has been keeping me in the zone and encouraging me non stop and is just all around one of the best and most talented person I know. Go show her stories some love if you haven't read her "Paint it Black" series yet - or as we call it, the CMFU, which stands for Crystal's Marvel Fanfiction Universe :)**

 **Happy Taco Tuesday,**

 **Pip**

* * *

 **REVIEW REPLIES**

* * *

cargumentluv - Ah thank you! I only just realized that Tony had a thing with that arm when I watched one of those Easter egg videos that showed a bunch of little reoccurring facts. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! (hugs!)

DaWriter06 - Your wish is my command my friend! haha! Stay tuned. It'll happen eventually ;) ;)

RedBarchetta - OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH. I love writing Deadpool so much. Deadpool is literally how my inner monologue works. It's unfortunate how often I grinning awkwardly because I canNOT say what is really going on in my head haha. Thank you SO much for reading and your thoughtful review. There's plenty more Deadpool in the future!

Sakura-Fiction - AW THANK YOU. I hope the quotes stay with you a long time lol XD This is just one small meeting between Bucky and Peter, and there will be plenty of mind blowing moments in the future!

Up-In-the-Clouds1285 - Thank you SO much for reading and reviewing! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Starnight5 - I have to give credit where credit is due for that "especially when I'm lying" line! That's directly from the movie courtesy of Mark Wahlberg lol. It's a fantastic scene, Mark Wahlberg totally loses his shit with Matt Damon's character (the undercover rat for the mob) and it's hilarious and amazing. I am so glad you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks for reviewing! (I'm sorry I'm putting your emotions through so much lol, hang in there!)

curry-llama - Oh my goodness thank you SO much. I'm so glad you're enjoying Deadpool as much as I am. He's so much fun to write. I also love that you hate Bucky so much, I feel like I've done my job correctly lol because he's such a lovable and beloved character everywhere else, but in my story he's very hated and everyone wants him to die lol. It's terrible yet I love it. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY WRITE A SPIDER-MAN FIC. I will be your first reviewer. GO TEAM SPIDEY GO!


	21. Changes in the Wind

**Warning:** language!

* * *

...

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Changes in the Wind**

...

* * *

 **Duty Calls -** _ **Tony Stark**_

* * *

...

I pace back and forth in the upper labs. My eyes skimming without seeing the glass walls, the high powered chamber we created for destroying the microprocessors once we had them in our possession. We were very optimistic during construction.

Now it's the last thing on my mind.

All I can think about is that kid. Seeing Captain America die, and then running off like that. He has to be fucking terrified. Now that I've met him in person - spoke with him, and yes, bonded a little - got attached -

The idea of him wandering around this city at night in anything but a Spider-Man costume doing the things that make him happy is just outrageous. This kid deserves a suit. That kid deserves to have what's left of his family.

I put myself in charge of finding him, now I just have to figure out how to do that.

I'll start simple. I'll suit up and search every damn hole in this city.

My phone rings.

 _Nick Fury._

I answer, but I don't have a chance to say hello.

"I've gotten about nine different calls from nine different sons of bitches all telling me that Captain America is no longer with us," Fury snaps. "And not a single call from someone I actually trusted."

"It's true," I reply painfully.

"So what the hell are you doing about it?" Fury pushes.

"...Regrouping."

"What the hell was Steve doing out on the top of the god damn building?"

"Meeting his informant. He's had one with the Vulture for awhile. He was supposed to pull him."

"So here's something I don't fucking understand, is why my least favorite strike team was on the ground at the same time?"

"They were under James Barnes's orders. Someone's been selling us out to the Vulture. He thought he was looking for their informant."

"Well they sure fucking found _one_ informant. They shot MY guy today."

I blink. "They what now?"

"I've had an undercover agent in Vulture's crew for… shit, I don't know. A year now? A year and a half? Trying to advance as a reliably addicted criminal. Get recruited by Hydra eventually as one of their mules."

"Who?" I demand.

"Aaron Davis. The Prowler. We're still looking for the body to confirm, but Rumlow's strike team confirmed they hit him before the van sped off. They didn't know he was one of their own. Which is why they should have never been there in the god-damn first place."

"Damn it," I choke out painfully, renewing my pacing with vigor, pinching the bridge of my nose to thwart an oncoming migraine. "Why didn't you tell anyone here?"

"Oh, well, let me think on that one," Fury replies sarcastically. "Because spies are _my_ tools. Using plants to gather information on fighting Hydra at the ground level. That's _my goddamn area of expertise._ What the fuck do you think I thought YOU were busy with? Space. Aliens. Robots. Leaving street clean up to us."

"Well, newsflash, _Nick,"_ I reply angrily. "The world isn't under attack and the UN doesn't want us to get bored. If we didn't come up with _something_ to do that met with their approval, then they split up the team and started sending us on solo missions around the world. So what do you _think_ we decided to focus on? Fighting Hydra. It's been our primary objective ever since Ultron."

"I don't feel comfortable sharing all my goddamn intel with Avengers Village during an ongoing investigation! And now you're telling me that Steve Rogers was conducting the _same damn investigation with an undercover Avenger which just got him killed?_ Tony, this is a big fucking mess."

"Don't you think I know that?" I reply, taking a moment to calm. "I'm sorry."

"I'm the one that's sorry," Nick growls. "Sorry for Davis's sister and his nephew Miles. They were the world to him, and him to them. I'm sorry that James fucking Barnes took it upon himself to put Shield Agents without all the intel on the ground for surveillance when they should not have been there. I'm sorry about Steve." He pauses. "I truly am, Tony."

I don't answer. I can't.

"I feel partially responsible. Asking him all those years ago. To get back out in the world."

"Don't do this," I pinch the bridge of my nose again. My head aches and pounds.

"Look," Fury says. "You said Steve was there to pull his own undercover _today?_ "

"Yes."

"You have him yet?"

"No - he's - still out there."

"Tony, if you've still got someone out there," I can hear Fury shake his head. "The fall out from this… It's not going to be pretty. Every no-good son of a bitch out there who ever thought a dirty word is going to feel emboldened by Cap's death. I'd pull him while you still can."

I nod. "I'll get him out."

"Now do me a favor, won't you? Keep Barnes's shit out of my shit. We didn't just lose one good one today. Shield is trained for shooting at the bad guys, but they would not have been there without Barnes's interference. I would consider asking myself why that is."

"Already asking," I respond shortly.

"Good. Now - listen. I'm off the grid. I'll be wrapping up my current job and flying into Wakanda after. I will try and make it back for the funeral, but I wanted to call and say, I am sorry. I am. "

"Thank you."

When he hangs up, I send a group text message to only the select few.

 _Assemble._

 _..._

* * *

 **One Last Job - Peter Parker**

* * *

...

I walk MJ home. Or rather, she walks me to her home. I'm too worried and scared and confused by what's going on to do much of anything.

But I stop at the door of her dorm building.

"You're not coming up?" she asks confusedly, when she tries to go through the door and my hand tugs her back.

"Wait a moment," I whisper.

The other phone is ringing. _MASON CALLING_

I grip her hand in one, answering the phone with the other.

"Peter here," I answer.

"Hi there!" greets Mason cheerfully. "Boss wants to know if you're feeling too emotionally fragile from losing Brice and Davis, or if you can help him with a job tomorrow morning."

I snort, playacting all too easily. I had gotten so used to this. "You can tell him to… wait. What job?"

"My upgrade is finally past the beta stage," Mason announces proudly. "The microprocessors are ready for Hydra. They're doing the sale tomorrow morning."

"What time?" I ask, an ice-cold sweat breaking loose on the back of my neck.

"Three a.m.," Mason replies.

"Where?"

"Staten Island. The dirt road off Murray Hulbert, where they stack all the log shipments. Can you make it?"

I look at MJ. She gazes back at me, eyes concerned. Full.

The temptation to say I can't make it and stay with her… I bet she would let me crawl into her bed and fall into an exhausted, grieving sleep. The type of sleep I can never have at the garage… a locked down building designed for student access only. I'd feel safe. She's probably curl up next to me, around me, let me stay… let me cry for Captain America if I needed to…

But everything that we'd been trying find… this last job… it wouldn't bring Captain America back… but it could save a lot of lives…

Spider-Man wouldn't walk away. So why would Peter Parker?

I keep my focus on MJ. It floods me with strength. "I'll be there," I say.

She squeezes my hand, even though she doesn't know why. Even if she asks and I don't tell her yet, just in case it jeopardizes her safety - she smiles at me anyway, and I know I'm making the right decision.

I hang up the phone.

"Can I kiss you goodbye?" I ask.

"What kind of goodbye is it?"

"The kind where… if this, if I do this, it's all over. The good guys win."

She braces her hands on my shoulders. "If the good guys win, are you going to be okay?" She pauses. "No, amendment. Safe?"

"What if I told you that I'm helping save the world?"

"I don't want a world that you're not in, so, maybe I don't care," she shrugs. "Tell me if I'll be seeing you again, or if this is like uh - Alamo type of goodbye."

"It's not like that. It's more like. D-Day."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

"But we won," I say confusedly.

"Have you ever actually looked at the casualties of D-Day?"

"I mean - yeah. Sophomore year."

"Jesus Christ, Peter."

"I'll be safe," I grasp her hands in my own. "But I have to go. I have to do this first."

Her face practically crashes into mine, and she winds her arms around my neck. I lift her off the step and swing her around, fusing her mouth with mine.

I start to loosen my grip, and she kisses me harder, her brow furrowed like she's angry and enacting revenge by the ferocity of her lips and tongue. I shut my eyes and melt away.

Finally she pulls back, her hands still locked around me. "This isn't goodbye," she says firmly. "This is a _good luck."_

 _..._

* * *

 **Collisions - Bucky Barnes**

* * *

...

I look at my last text to Natasha. The glow of my phone screen blinds me in my dark room. The night descended feels uneasy, as if the blackness came from drawing a blanket over my head, not the lack of sunlight outside.

So far, no answer. My gut feels like writhing snakes, staring at my phone like a beacon in deep waters. I feel hopelessness and curiosity, more than worry, of why she hasn't communicated with me at all. The belief of the inevitable. _Because she never really felt anything for you in the first place._

My phone rings. _A 002 V._

I answer. "Yes?"

"It's happening tonight - er, tomorrow, I guess."

"What is?"

"The microprocessors. The sale. Staten Island, log shipping company off Murray Hulbert."

He's breathless. He sounds as if he's running. I can hear the sounds of the city behind him. Traffic and wind whistling, as if he's in a much higher elevation. Maybe on a bridge.

"I know the place. What time?"

"Three a.m. Where they stack all the logs."

"You did it," I say, congratulating him. "This is it. We'll get them back. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

"Listen," he says urgently. "It's… it's going to be big. There'll be a lot of hardware, enhanced individuals on the buyer's side, too."

"Who is the buyer?"

"Hydra."

I pretend to act surprised. "Did they say who they were sending, though? Their network is widespread..."

"He didn't say. Vulture is a _regular_ guy though. All his tech is powerful, but no one on the crew is enhanced."

 _Except you,_ I think. _I've fought you._

"If it goes south, it's a bloodbath."

"It's not going to go south," I promise. "Because the Avengers will be there to stop it."

He heaves a sigh of relief. "Y-yeah. Yeah."

"One last mission, soldier?" I ask. "Let's make him proud."

He takes in a sharp breath. My words hurt him. "Yeah," he chokes. "Proud. If there's anything else…"

"We'll take care of it."

"Okay." He says quietly. "Okay then. Guess I'll see you soon."

"Yes, you will."

I end the call and sit up out of bed. My room is still as bare as if I moved in yesterday. Looks like nothing much of anything. White walls, a bed, a dresser. A closet.

It's a spy's room, which means never putting down roots. Force of habit.

Never moving in enough that you can't pack a bag in ten seconds and leave.

I know if Natasha and I ever found our way in here… things might unwravel. This is where I hoped and hinted; she was welcome to invite herself upstairs, she knew that. If not initiate herself, she knew I had an unspoken invitation that she need only accept if she wanted to. If our physical ferocity ever crossed the invisible boundary… if our driven, burning touches deepened. But we hadn't had that conversation yet.

Only paralyzing looks from her, as if to say " _I dare you to say what you're thinking"._

What I'm thinking, of course, is that - these aren't kisses that lead to movies and popcorn, these are kisses that lead to bedrooms.

She would take one look at this bare, cold room and know something wasn't right. It's the room of a spy, not a soldier. A soldier makes his small corner a home, because he always hopes he can come back to it. A soldier puts a few pictures on the wall. Has a favorite blanket thrown over the foot of the bed. Keeps a Bible in the nightstand, a dogtag on the bedpost.

Natasha Romanoff would see through it. And that's where things would begin to get shaky. Nothing gold can stay, after all. My relationship with her isn't built on a solid foundation. No history, no honesty. It's toying with the pin of a grenade.

I don't even realize how badly my head is throbbing. The sensations crash down at once - the pounding migraine, the ringing phone in my hand. Only it's not ringing to me - I've dialed a call out. Barely even noticing that I was doing it.

 _RINGING._

Vulture answers. "What?" he answers gruffly.

"I… I…" I nearly swallow my tongue. My lungs feel as if they are stretching out my throat, aiming for the ceiling. My hands twitch like an addict. The Winter Soldier wants to tell him everything; even my suspicion of who the undercover is.

After reviewing the footage that night, and hearing his voice - at last, and without him trying to disguise it - I have a certainty to my theory. Not proof, but a certainty.

But worse than that, the Winter Soldier wants to scroll back through the contacts on my phone, pull the number for _A 002 V._ Send it to the Vulture, tell him to line his men up, dial the number. See whose pocket rings.

That's what the Winter Soldier wants me to do right now.

 _Send him the number. Tell him who you think it is._

I'm fighting him in my head, harder than I've ever fought before. I don't want to send the number. I have no proof of who I think it might be.

 _Send him the number._

"I didn't pop the Captain, if that's what you're wondering," Toomes says hesitantly. It's the first time I've ever heard him sound unsure. "So if this is the start of some noble revenge shitshow, I'm out."

"It's not. I already know who killed him," I lie all too easily. Blood pools in my mouth from biting my tongue. "You and Shield had a run in today..."

"If it weren't for Captain America's death, it would have been a normal interruption," Toomes answers. "They killed one of my guys."

"Which one?"

"Aaron Davis."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say blankly.

"I'm going with the sale tonight anyway. Did Pierce tell you?"

 _Someone told me. I suspect the person is…_

"No. Which sale?"

"Microprocessors. They're ready. Hydra is buying."

I start choking as if my throat is closing up with an allergic reaction. My breath wheezes horribly, and I feel the pressure in my ears change as if climbing up a high mountain.

I need to tell him the Avengers are coming tonight.

To end it all. Take him out, take down his crew, both him and the buyers from Hydra, recovering the stolen microprocessors, and then bringing them back here to the lab to be destroyed for good…

It all ends tonight…

Unless the Winter Soldier loses.

"They…" I start to say.

If I tell him, this will undo the work of the undercover… Steve's work, too. His last mission that he never got to see through.

"Hello? Barnes?"

I drop the phone in my lap, my hand shaking, I clutch at my wrist with the other, holding it still.

"Hello? Damnit." The Vulture sighs with annoyance and hangs up.

I unleash a ravaged exhale. Before anything else can happen, I put my phone in my pocket and I flee the room. Leaving the door open behind me.

Running down the hallway at a fully enhanced sprint, ignoring the elevator, reaching a balcony looking into a cross-section of hallways below me.

I throw myself over the railing and plummet for the hall below, tuck, land, and roll back to my feet, grabbing the next and throwing myself over again. Three floors of this until I reach a closed hall, aiming for a stairwell that echoes and taunts my footsteps - a man running, haunted.

My headache pounds with his name. _Steve. Steve. Steve._

 _..._

* * *

 **The Rat Identity -** _ **Adrian Toomes**_

* * *

...

Schultz drives. After two a.m., the roads are nearly empty and yellow with old lights. I should have eaten something before leaving to calm my nerves. Instead, I eat a handful of peanuts from a packet like I'm on a really shitty airline.

Peter sits in the back. Sort of jumpy, like a cricket.

The salt burns my tongue as I grind my teeth together, knocking back another handful of nuts and fiddling with the radio sticking to the dash with duct tape.

"What is that?" Peter asks.

"Police scanner," I mutter, "But an old one." I smack the side of the radio, watching the little red dials come to life. The audio scratching and struggling through.

Schultz looks at something written on his hand, before curving both fists over the steering wheel. His knuckles look strained. "You want… uh… midtown precinct. Hell's Kitchen."

"Of all the places for Tom and Greg to dump a body," I mutter, pissed off. "They pick _Hell's Kitchen._ That's the Devil's neighborhood."

"No one messes with the red devil," Schultz agrees.

"Wait," Peter asks worriedly, "Did they get _caught_ by another boss?"

"Vigilante," I correct. "The devil is another masked idiot doing ninja shit. Red suit. Kind of like that Spider one that was around for a few years. But they didn't get caught. They just picked a bad, bad area." I twist one of the dials on the radio. "We got a heads up from someone in the NYPD that they found Davis's body already. We thought we'd tune in."

The audio on the radio is louder now, the voices clearer.

" _\- ell's - tchen - sanitation pier - 99. Abandoned boat ramp north - the pier - 10-34 reported - DOA… multiple abdomen piercing rounds - forensics - site..."_

"What does DOA mean?" Peter asks.

"Dead on arrival," I answer. "Sounds like Davis all right."

"In what universe do Tom and Greg dump Davis in an area where people walk and jog regularly," Schultz rolls his eyes. "Just because the dock is broken, they think, ey, this looks creepy enough. Let's leave it here."

I get a text message from Pierce.

 _They're on their way._

I answer quickly. _Good._

My phone buzzes again.

 _Davis was an Agent of Shield working for Nick Fury undercover._

I stare at the phone in my hand. What the fuck?

I type back. _Did you know this?_

 _The mission was not sanctioned by me. Fury just turned in his report to me._

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. "Well, what d'ya know," I say, twisting around in my seat and looking at Schultz and Peter. "Just had a little birdie in Shield tell me that Aaron Davis was our rat."

Schultz and Peter both react with mouths falling open.

"That moron!" Schultz groans.

The radio crackles. " _...Identify - facial recognition - alias - The Prowler…"_

"Does that mean he was feeding our information to Shield the WHOLE TIME?" Peter exclaims. "I can't believe it!"

"I would have thought Jackson would have betrayed us before Davis," Schultz growls.

"I thought so too," I admit. I give a white grin to Peter. "So now we know. Our rat."

"Fucking rats," Schultz goes on. "Damn, he was a good actor. I just thought he was too… too…"

"Too chill," Peter mumbles.

"Fucking traitor!" adds Schultz.

"Yeah, yeah," Peter adds unconvincingly. "I can't believe it!"

"Believe it," I say, and I am secretly relieved, yet again, that it ain't Pedro. "It's always the ones you don't suspect."

I suspected Peter from the beginning, so it makes sense. Davis didn't get into our group because an old associate of Mac's pointed us out because he wanted revenge. He got into our group because Nick Fury wanted him here.

"So I'm guessing we are in the clear for tonight," Peter says hesitantly. "No one told him about the sale was ready before he died, right?"

"No," I assure him. "It's good." I turn on my phone again, dialing Greg.

"Hullo!" he answers joyfully. "That you, Mason?"

"Gregory," I snap. "They found Davis already you near-sighted, blundering, MORON!"

Greg begins to stutter. "It was clear! It was clear! It's a good spot! No one uses it for boats no more!"

"Three feet of fucking water by a dock is not a good spot, you idiot," I yell. "Next time I tell you to DUMP A BODY, don't fucking DUMP A BODY in a primary jogging route where every bitch named Rachel goes on any god-damn evening for her nightly exercise!"

"Someone named Rachel found him during a jog?" repeats Greg confusedly.

"You're a idiot," I say, and I hang up the line.

Peter lets out a strange little giggle. But it's not a funny giggle. More like he is making a hard choice between giggling or throwing himself out of a moving vehicle cruising at fifty miles an hour onto a nearly-empty bridge, sans traffic during this ungodly hour.

I'm no stranger to strung-out newbies getting a little hysterical on the job with no sleep, but I need his mind sharp and obedient.

"It's not fucking funny," Schultz says.

"It is kind of funny," I say. I reach back and slap Peter's knee. "Get it together, Pedro. I need you fully in the zone tonight."

"You… you got it, boss. Count on me."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT TIME:** HYDRA VS. THE AVENGERS...

* * *

 **Reader Replies**

* * *

Sakura-Fiction - It cracks me up how much you hate Bucky. This delights me as an author. I've done my job lol. I also love the phrase IronDad XD That just made my day. Thanks for reviewing as always!

curry-llama - Sorry about the anxiety but holy shit it's gonna get worse darlin'. XD Thanks for your amazing reviews as always, I have the same thoughts about the far from home trailer!

cargumentluv - That's right! Peter should listen to MJ! XD Thanks so much for your reviews :)

LoonyLovegood1981 - Totally agree on the Mysterio looking like Dr. Strange and Thor, and I bet Flash totally would have said that if he knew Dr. Strange existed lol. Wouldn't it be hilarious if Peter was like "more like Dr. Strange" and everyone looks at him like "who is that?" XD I would crack up. I'm so glad you're enjoying the chapter! Sorry it's a bit terrifying. Apologies for future terror.

Starnight5 - I am so sorry its frustrating lol. I also love that though. XD Thank you so much for reading :D (hugs)

Tightpants182 - LOL I love you so much thank you for your review this just made my day! IM SORRY ITS SO ANXIOUS LOL. And I love how frustrated you are the characters, me as an author is very happy! Thanks for reading (hugs)


	22. No Good Deeds

...

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - No Good Deeds**

…

* * *

 **The Drop -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

 _..._

 _Count on me._

2:50 AM.

The trucks silently file into the drop zone. Schultz stops his first, and then the others slowly pull in behind. No headlights.

"Keep an eye out for our Hydra friends," Toomes says.

"Who is it we should watch for?" I ask.

Toomes gives me a weird look. " _My_ friends in Hydra are confidential, but they'll be sending someone else to do the actual buy. It's likely no one we know."

"Oh. Okay." The gun that he had given me during the last big sale - and my first attempt to escape - is tucked into my jeans, just like a real gangster. "Got it, boss."

Vulture pounds my shoulder. "Good boy. I know I can trust you. You know that, right? Brice was a fucking mistake. Davis was the rat. My two last good ones. You and Schultz. You're my right hand men now. You've proven yourself multiple times. I appreciate that."

I nod with a nervous gulp. "Yes. Sir. Thank you."

Schultz shuts his door. The other men start to pile out of the cars. I recognize people like Marcus and Quinn and Greg, but there's others I've never met. Another rotation of easily replaceable hired guns.

A few of the expendable ones are sent to explore the immediate area. The road curves around the edge of the island, the river on the left, a highway and old buildings to the right. But when the real road curves inland, we took the dirt track hanging left to stay on the coast.

It descends into the flat industrial wastes, where warehouses stand in dirt lots, half-finished fences line empty courtyards, and huge containment units lie around with no particular pattern. There are empty flatbed trailers, a boxcar, a wheelbarrow, tanks, and oil drums. There's a few tall silos, and trees haphazardly growing up through fences and the cracks in the lots. I can see metal docks protruding into the black, lapping waters, glinting like ink.

They fan out, look around. In the clear.

Standing with huge stacks of timber on either side of the road, backs to the entrance, we are expecting Hydra to approach from the south. Despite being in close proximity to a government building and the boat unit of the New York Fire Department.

Not a good area to try and sell valuable weapons like this; the NYFD is always going to be on alert, even if the nearby danger isn't exactly on _fire._ They're far enough away that they likely wouldn't hear us, but what if one of their patrol boats comes upriver on our left? We're totally visible, at the right angle.

"This isn't a good spot," I say out loud. Then I feel the blood drain from my face and my stomach clenches. Oh my god, I'm an idiot. I'm thinking like one of Vulture's men - staying hidden from law enforcement. I've been pretending to be a criminal for so long I'm actually thinking like one.

Holy shit, what is wrong with me?

This is where I told Mr. Barnes we would be, so we definitely need to be here at this exact spot. Otherwise the Avengers won't find us and stop us.

 _My god, I'm such an idiot. Don't say anything to encourage them otherwise._

"How so?" Toomes hisses, whipping his head towards me.

"Oh, no, I mean," I correct, "It's good _for us._ Visibility and open routes. Not great for Hydra."

"I wouldn't worry about Hydra."

"No, sir. Definitely not."

Schultz clamps on the Shocker gauntlet, twisting it around his wrist and clicking it into place. Blue energy comes to life inside. He taps it to make it comfortable, and a little bit of dust falls out.

He catches me staring with my eyes wide. Flashes me a predatory grin.

I immediately look away, nausea threading its way through my stomach.

A pair of yellow headlights swing around the corner of the dirt road up ahead. There are two black sedans, a slightly older model. The brakes whine a little as they slow to a crunching stop on dusty gravel.

When they kill the engines, the headlights go off. Leaving the figures exiting the car in shadow. Five in one car, four in the other. Nine altogether.

Toomes leads the way, Schultz and I flanking him. The rest follow; lining up behind us like tin soldiers waiting for orders.

The guy they call Ralphio holds the case of the real microprocessors, and he stands behind me. No - _hides_ behind me. He's making sure there is not a part of him exposed behind me so that if this goes awry, I catch any bullets meant for him. _Great._

The shadows step under the hazardous yellow hue of the light on the corner of the nearest outbuilding. I'm surprised at the appearance of their leader. He looks like a middle aged history professor, sort of round, gray-haired, but tall and imposing. He's wearing a nice gray suit, and gazing at each of us in turn like we're supposed to give him a speech in order to earn straight As. His eyes are quick and black, like marbles.

"Hail Hydra," he says grimly, as if it is a test.

"Hail Hydra," I squeak automatically in response.

Impenetrable silence.

Oh shit.

Toomes shoots me a smile somewhere between losing his mind with laughter and clocking me upside the head for speaking out of turn.

I've seen World War II films, and they always responded to Hitler chants with other Hitler chants… since Hydra was primarily formed from Nazis, and shared way too many of the same ideals, I would have thought they did the same thing.

The man looks at me with surprised and narrowed eyes, but he gives me a smile of approval.

"Very good," he chuckles.

"Mr. Malick," Toomes greets, stepping forward and holding out a hand. It's unusual for Vulture to be the hand-shaking kind, but I guess with Hydra, we can just throw every rule out the window.

"Please," he smiles warmly, shaking in return. "Call me Gideon. I haven't had to put on airs since I was on the World Security Council."

"Your influence over Shield and the Avengers are missed," Toomes replies. "Trust me on that."

"Shield is well in hand," Malick shakes his head. "As are the Avengers, I hear."

Toomes shrugs. "Let's just say I prefer a world where Hydra can conduct their business in broad daylight."

"Soon, my friend," Malick says gravely. "Someday soon. But in meantime you are invaluable to our acquisition of powerful technologies. They aid in advancing our ideology."

I catch the very briefest of twitches, right in the corner of the Vulture's eye. I realize he doesn't give a _crap_ about Hydra propaganda. He just wants his money.

"You ask, we deliver." Toomes motions Ralphio forward.

Instead of going around me, Ralphio steps up beside me and thrusts the microprocessor briefcase into my hands. It takes me a moment to realize he's handing it off to me when he's not supposed to.

Annoyed, I accept the shoved briefcase and turn to Malick and Toomes, unclasping it, and holding it open. I do it with such casual, speedy indifference, that both Toomes and Malick gaze at me with impressed curiosity, before looking down into the opened case.

The microprocessors look similar to the fake ones that Vulture sold to Klaue, but more… just more. The same capsules, like vitamins, with the silvery metal inside. But now that I'm seeing the real ones, I realize the other ones looked fake only by comparison. A cap gun from a toy store versus a semi-automatic weapon.

I cannot imagine the hours - and the incredibly high-powered magnifier - it would take to add alien upgrades to each and every one. Ten rows of ten, one hundred altogether. Invisible upgrades of alien-level advancement as only Mason can conjure up with his brilliant and misguided mind.

I wonder what sort of bells and whistles he added? I never asked. I should have asked.

"Beautiful," Mallick purrs. "Thank you. As always."

He closes the case with a brass click and slides it out of my hands. As soon as I let go, I step back into line immediately.

"Thank you, Giyera," Malick hands the case to the man next to him. He's tall, Asian, and also dressed in nice clothes. A navy blue shirt and tie.

He looks like he should be a famous scientist, but his movements are just a little too fluid. It betrays impressive gracefulness and control, and my spider-senses zing with something I've never felt before.

A sour shiver as if I sucked on a lemon with… my brain.

This guy is definitely enhanced, I think. But more than enhanced. More than me, even. Something more biological and yet other-worldly. I've never heard the name Giyera before, and I can tell the name means absolutely nothing to the Vulture when he hears it. He doesn't blink at all.

"Your payment, as promised," Malick beckons his finger over his shoulder without looking behind him, maintaining his focus on our crew at all times.

I quickly take stock of the others Malick brought with him.

There's four in particular that sort of match up. They're wearing bulky gray jackets as if they work in electronics for the US Air Force. They have scarves and handkerchiefs covering the lower halves of their faces, but casually. More uniform than disguise. It's easy to tell that three of them have beards. They're carrying large semi-automatic weapons behind their shoulders, hands resting on the straps. The guard dogs, obviously.

The guy at the far left looks like he cruises around on motorcycles in Los Angeles. Long, shaggy hair, bearded, clear-eyed, and white T-shirt under a brown leather jacket. He wears a bemused, charming smirk as if he believes he's the best looking guy in any given circumstance.

My spider-sense twitches uncomfortable when he shifts, removing his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms over his chest with boredom. Giving every impression of harmless, but the skin on his hands beg otherwise. Both hands look sunburnt as hell, though the rest of him is pale. His knuckles such a dark, peachy red, it's painful to even look at.

Between the guard-dogs and Giyera, there's a girl that's been hanging back the whole time. She has long, straight red hair. It's very pretty… and out of place. She doesn't look like she belongs with this group of Hydra agents at all. Based on her outfit, she'd look more at home taking photos for cosplay groups and captioning her leather jacket pictures with " _casual Captain Mal look"_ and " _how could you cancel Firefly?"_

There's a part of me that senses she, like me, is stuck in a situation that maybe she doesn't want to be in. She exudes inner-kindness, but it doesn't erase the spider-warning clenching my stomach when she follows Malick's beckoning.

There's a jumbled, drowning, crowded threat pouring from her, like hundreds of fish trapped, squirming and flopping around. She is, somehow, the net.

She places the duffel bag on the ground in front of the man on Mallick's right. The man I can't read. Like a shut book in a closed library in the middle of the night. There's nothing rolling off him, no sense of danger. Which then makes my spider-sense go crazy with danger anyway. It's the guys who are trained to hide themselves from enhanced individuals like me who are the most dangerous.

He's very tall. Pale, thin. Dark eyes, dark hair. Dark clothes, one hand resting on the gun tucked at his belt. A standard-issue Shield gun, actually. His stance and posture scream _Shield agent._ But the look in his eyes says _corpse._

I realize the lack of vibes from him is actually a lack of… anything. Emotion. Empathy. Why he looks like a posed corpse-puppet. He's probably a sociopath or a psychopath. Michelle could probably explain the different in correct medical terms to me - antisocial personality disorders or something like that.

She'd have all the answers. She always tries to, anyway. I can't wait to get into our first fight about it. And then make up. And then…

It's much larger than a normal sports duffel. More like something you would keep a large tent in with poles folded in half, or maybe golfing equipment. The man unzips it, showing the rows and rows and rows of hundreds and _hundreds_ of bills inside. I cannot even begin to guess the amount.

I mean, I could, if I had a few numbers to work with. Algebra in real life is so easy. A US bill weighs one gram, if the bag is approximately four feet long and two feet wide, and the grams per stack equal…

 _Parker, focus!_

The man smiles thinly, his face wan, sallow and unhealthy.

Vulture steps forward and looks down inside of the bag, nodding thoughtfully, non committedly.

"You remember Hydra's protege, Grant Ward," Malick introduces.

"Good to see you again, Ward," Vulture runs his tongue over his white, white teeth. "It's been awhile. How's Garrett?"

Ward looks up from the bag, lifting his head the way cobra snake heads float upwards before a venomous bite. "He's fine," he looks back at the money, and up again at Vulture. He seems angry that he asked about Garrett, whoever that is. It occurs to me that this could be an Agent of Shield working for Hydra, too. I'll need to get that name back to the Avengers to make sure. That could have been one of the contacts that Cap and Deadpool were so desperate to uncover. Maybe _he_ is the one that has that code thingy that Mr. Wilson kept insisting I not worry about. Well, maybe they shouldn't have brought it up if they didn't want me to...

"We good?" Ward asks. His tone sends an icy chill down my spine.

"We're good," Toomes responds.

Grant Ward zips the bag up again. With the redhead's help, they lift it together. She was able to set it down just fine before, which tells me she's enhanced - and Grant Ward isn't.

They hold the straps of the bag out to me.

I accept it with ease, and then suddenly - and almost a second too late - I remember _I'm_ not supposed to be enhanced at all.

"Whoa," I mutter, tipping forward and nearly face-planting into the bag.

 _And the Oscar goes to..._

I glare at Ralphio. "A little help, please?"

Ralphio shuffles quickly to my side, and together, we carry the bag of money over to the first car, sliding it into the open door.

I turn around just in time to see Mallick and Toomes shaking hands again, and then he and his team began to move back towards their cars.

I feel the blood drain from my face. If Mallick leaves with those microprocessors right now… it's all over. Last mission total failure. While Mr. Barnes didn't exactly say there was a plan, or explain the plan at all, he did say they would be here to take possession of them again. Isn't this cutting it just a little too close?

I abandon Ralphio at the car and walk quickly back up to Schultz and Vulture's sides, watching Mallick get into the car. His Hydra operatives follow suit.

One last look from Grant Ward - those deadly, shark eyes.

Doors shut one, two, a few at the same time, and one more. Then the engines turn over, headlights turn on, and they start to pull around.

 _No no no no no…_

Does this mean outing myself as Spiderman to get the microprocessors back? I don't know if I could take both Hydra agents, with the enhanced ones, and dodge the bullets of Vulture and his crew simultaneously. If I attacked Mallick's brigade, he'd watch with horror and then immediately order my death.

 _They aren't coming._

The thought comes surprisingly unbidden to my mind.

I should have known.

I should have known.

I spoke with someone names James Barnes on the phone who claimed to be an Avenger and I didn't know him nor had I ever met him…

The man I fought by construction lot that night… when he took the thumb drive… I didn't recognize him. It's embarrassing now to admit, though useful, that I've always been a bit of an Avengers fanboy. And yet.

Yet I didn't recognize this person. Nor him me. Neither of us knew who the other person was so what sort of logical conclusion can I draw from that?

The rat would be someone I didn't know about. A new guy.

Someone who might call me on the phone of a dead man.

 _They aren't coming._

What if I blurted the information about the sale to the mole in the Avenger's team? I didn't wait till Deadpool contacted me, heck, I didn't even try to track down Mr. Stark - and I knew I could trust him. He knew my secret. Steve trusted him with it.

 _Jesus Christ, Peter,_ I think. _Even Scott Lang knew your secret and was entrusted to get you connected with the underground network in the first place. You should have tracked him down._

I was so desperate. So incredibly desperate, lonely, and frightened - and I had blurted all the intel to a person I had never met before.

Someone who _called me from a dead man's phone._

What was I thinking?

They're not coming.

They're not coming.

I blew it.

Ralphio slaps my shoulder too hard. "So you coming or what?"

"What?" I ask, turning towards him. "What?"

Our crew is slowly walking back towards the cars. Half of them already inside, guarding the money.

My spider-senses register something flying at high speeds through the air before I see anything. I squint into the dark sky, but there's nothing but black, black night, a few stars, and some scattered rain clouds.

I get in the car, the crushing disappointment threatening to take me over.

I feel like I'm drowning in it.

I can't do this anymore.

...

* * *

 **Avengers Assemble - Tony Stark**

* * *

...

The hanger echoes with clattering footsteps as Barnes rushes in at full speed, his face still a colorful display of bruising. He looks, physically, the way the rest of us feel.

"Where the hell are you going?" he demands, eyes raking over each of us like a wild animal not knowing who will strike first.

We're suiting up. For some of us, it's armor. Testing a few bells and whistles, and for me, loading missiles the size of my finger into the gauntlet of Mark XLVI.

Some of us just brush our teeth and put on a jacket. Like Wanda. Vision suddenly imagines himself in a long, colorful cape, and the cape doth shall appear.

"Comic Con," I deadpan.

Rhodes gives me a swift glare. "We're going to pull the undercover informant," he says professionally. "Whether he's ready or not."

Rhodes does the right thing by not saying _how_ we plan on finding him, even though it was his idea. After I got off the phone with Nick, I went to him, I expressed how helpless I felt. Rhodes brought his practical military experience and gravity to the mess.

"Let's just find the Vulture," he had shrugged. "The informant should be close by. If not, we can aggressively persuade him to give us the locations of all his crew members."

So, we're looking for Peter, by looking for Adrian Toomes.

It's times like this where I would _never_ admit that I need people like Rhodes, Pepper - and Steve - to think big picture, bold strokes. When my brain over complicates everything like complex chemical engineering problem with too many x factors.

The Vulture's crew went dark not long after Steve died. And by dark, I mean all of the hot spots they typically hang out in are shuttered, closed, empty. Those hole-in-the-wall taverns and restaurants, paid off like a mob kingdom to let them come and go as they please. Punzi's, for one. Closed up and blacked out windows. No one home.

Any vehicles we've pinned in the past are not in garages, which means they are on the road somewhere.

The Vulture and his crew loaded up the wheels and disappeared. Where they are going, and why, I couldn't guess. But we're going to pull some strings to get a bird's eye view.

"How do you feel about scavenger hunts?" Sam asks. "Want to join?"

I glare at him. "This is a closed opp."

"I'd like to help," Barnes responds sarcastically, "Unless Deadpool wants to box first."

I feel good about my decision to put Wade Wilson on the ground. Even if it's not UN-sanctioned or Accords-appropriate. This could mean the end of everything if he's caught - the Avengers, now enemies of the state. Has a nice ring to it.

I find it strange that Barnes isn't asking about Steve. The medical examiner finally came back with a report. Wouldn't he be curious about it?

To be fair, I'm preoccupied with Operation Homecoming, as Wade put it. I won't - can't - dwell on Steve's death now.

Kevin asked me before he went home for the night if I wanted Steve's personal effects. I told him to hang onto them for a little while, except for the phone. But I found nothing that could help - no contacts or to and from numbers to reach Peter.

And then there was the cold, hard facts.

Steve died from the three gunshots. Vibranium coated bullets from a very specific kind of sniper rifle - chest first, head second. Dead even before his knees unlocked and his body fell from the roof.

"I'm afraid Deadpool is knee-deep in a Netflix musical right now and is not invited on this trip," I lie, "and therefore, will not be here to decorate your face any further."

"I have information that will be vital to your mission tonight," Barnes says. "Do you want my help, or not?"

I'm confused by his body language. His heavy breathing. He looks like he's going to have a stroke, but his entire chest and arms are rigid as if he expects aggressive, even offensive movements from us.

"If you have something you would like to share with us, please," Wanda gestures to the room. "No one will break your nose if you have something _useful_ to say."

Clint twists an explosive arrowhead onto a shaft, his resting bitch face looking more like a direct murder threat in Barnes's direction. But his mouth twitches slightly at Wanda with approval.

"What have you got?" Rhodes asks.

"The undercover called _me,"_ Barnes says. "He said the microprocessor sale is at 3 AM. That's why the Vulture is missing. He's going to Staten Island."

I feel as if someone just hit the mute button.

"Why the hell did the undercover call you?" I demand. How could Peter Parker know anything about Bucky Barnes? Barnes came to us after he'd been placed and was barred access to the op.

Though technically, so was I. I wasn't running the op. So I can't say for sure.

In the week between Chinese dinner and Steve's death… if Steve had given Peter a secondary number to call in case of a crisis…

No. No no no.

He would have given that to me. That would have been my mission. I have no doubts, as much as he loved Barnes, he would NOT have put Peter Parker in his hands.

He's smarter - was - smarter than that.

"HOW did the undercover know how to call you?" I rephrase, even louder, stepping up to Barnes. Maybe he does need another solid punches in the face for good measure. He's been trying to weasel his way into the undercover op, and with Steve gone and Wade out, that falls to me. _Only_ me.

"I don't know what he and Steve discussed," Bucky exclaims. "HE called ME. But I can tell you what is important _tonight._ The undercover knows where the Vulture is going to be, when it's taking place, and he's prepared to help us take him down tonight." He looks at me, desperately. "It's now or never, Stark. We can save the undercover _and_ get the microprocessors back tonight."

I get within an inch of his face.

"You do not have any authorization to run Steve's previous operation," I snarl. "That would fall to Wade Wilson first, and then to me."

He gazes at me unflinchingly, his eyes bleak. "Yes, sir."

"Since you are an enhanced individual with comparable skills to the late Captain Steven Grant Rogers, we'll put you on the ground," I say, "But first, every _miniscule detail_ of intel that you have, no matter how small, you will be _giving to me."_

I emphasized Cap's status and name to watch for a reaction. I can't shake that James Buchanan Barnes might be some sort of sociopath.

A shadow passes behind his eyes, that same shadow of grief that we all wear now, but he puts it away. Grimaces and then clenches his jaw. "Yes. Sir," he repeats.

"Well then," I say shortly. "Walk with me."

"I don't suppose you got some sorta magical intuition that tells us if that bastard is going to screw us all or if he's actually on the up and up?" Clint stage-whispers to Vision.

"My intuition says the safety of the undercover is absolute priority and if James Barnes can aid us, then we take advantage of it," Vision replies coolly. "I seem less bothered than the rest of you by his presence here. Pettiness is an _entirely_ human trait. I am not entirely human."

Bucky ignores him, follows me dutifully towards the work station for Bruce, a wide doorway out of the hanger and into an observation room. Bruce and one of his interns are getting everything ready. He agreed to be on the coms and run things from here - he's not built for combat anymore, and his green friend is missing in action. I trust no one else to hold down the fort.

Agent Maria Hill's face is on one of the screens, wearing a headset and an all-business attitude.

"Agent Hill," I greet. "Thanks for agreeing to help out."

"Turns out I had an evening off," she says. I can see the bowed shape of a quinjet cabin behind her, a small detail on her console that says _autopilot._ She's likely on her way to Wakanda with Nick Fury. "I've got a couple of satellites ready to point where you need them."

Bruce brings up the controls. "And we're ready."

I look at Barnes. "Well?"

"Staten Island," he replies. "Tompkinsville. About forty point sixty degrees north, seventy four degrees west. That should be - point of entry, I hope. The exchange is going to take place around three A.M. Our undercover says it will be by the stacked logs."

 _Our_ undercover. Asswipe.

Agent Hill punches in some numbers. In addition to the dark satellite imagery, lit only by what orange street lamps are close to the lots off Murray Hulbert Avenue, the stats appear in a separate window.

40°37'54.2"N 74°04'24.9"W

"That's where the sale is taking place," Barnes points at the screen. He looks back at me. "The undercover says the buyers will have enhanced individuals on their side."

"Who is the buyer?" Bruce asks.

"Hydra."

"We figured as much," I respond. "They're the only ones worse than Ulysses Klaue. But which tentacle?"

"He didn't know."

"Thanks for your assistance," I say callously. "Now. I need the number. You said he called you? I need that."

Barnes hesitates, pulls out his phone. Doesn't show me the screen, but doesn't act as if he's trying to hide it, either. That makes me even more uneasy. He immediately opens it, taps out something, and returns it to his pocket.

I watch him. "Well?" I ask sternly.

My pocket vibrates. I pull out my phone and there's a text from Barnes containing the 917 number. "Thank you," I say dryly, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

I hear Bruce clear his throat. "You're not going to call him, are you? We don't know if he's in a secure area. The Vulture could overhear and demand he hand over the phone…"

I give him a flower-wilting expression.

"Or I'll shut up," Bruce adds sarcastically.

"Now…," I turn back to Barnes. "Like Bruce said. We don't want to endanger him or alert the Vulture to anyone else being able to contact him other than himself. If he's standing close enough to him, it could undo everything."

"Got it," Barnes replies, but it's not enough for me.

"Delete the number."

"What?"

"I said fucking _delete it."_

I watch Barnes, with a shattered expression, open his phone and delete the contact.

"That received call you said you got? Erase it."

"I'll need to…"

"Erase the entire history, if you must. Now."

Without protest, he does what I ask. Erases every received call.

"That text you just sent me. Delete it."

I feel like an old, angry farmer forcing a kid to pick his own switches in one of those dark western movies.

Surprisingly, Barnes opens his inbox settings and goes directly to _EMPTY ALL._

It throws me off, but I don't comment. If he deleted the texts that contained Peter's number, that's fine. Whatever else he doesn't want me to the see, I'll give him that just this once. If he's hiding something, it will come out.

If not, I'll let Wade do whatever he wants with him.

"You are not to even _think about the undercover."_ I say coldly. "You are operating entirely under _my_ jurisdiction. I started the Avengers. And I'll run it in Steve's absence. You got it? _Buck?"_

Barnes nods, but his hands curl into fists. "Yes, sir. Will that be all?"

"That will be all."

Barnes turns for the door. "Then I'll go get ready."

After an appropriate moment, Bruce quietly asks, "What was that all about?"

"Yeah seriously. What is this weird power dynamic thing going on right now?" Maria chimes in. "More importantly, _are_ we keeping score?"

"Not now," I sigh. "I can't go into this right now."

Silence. My forehead in my palm, massaging my temples, trying to think.

"You okay, Tony?" Bruce asks.

"No, no, I'm not okay, I'm not," I say, more snappy than I mean to. "Steve Rogers is lying on a cold slab in the medical wing right now, his belongings in a bag, no one has heard from Sharon… Natasha's flight got delayed because of the weather system in the northeast…"

"I was able to reach Sharon," Maria says gently. "She's okay right now. Fury was able to sit her down and tell her in person before we left. Cameron Klein is one of her closest friends in Shield. He and his sister at her apartment with her now."

"Okay, okay, good," I say shortly. "That's good. She shouldn't have to be alone. I'd go sit with her but… we've got shit to do tonight if any of his last work will be worth it."

"They'll watch over her," Maria continues. "As for the rest."

"The rest," I repeat.

"One step at a time," she nods. "Focus on one step at a time. Let's finish Steve's last mission."

Bruce nods with agreement.

Before I can let myself think too hard or too much, I turn and leave the room as quickly as I can.

Everyone is ready in the hangar. The huge door is yawning open now, cool midnight air blowing through in chilled thoughtlessness.

"All right everyone, you have the coordinates and imagery now in your wrist communicators," Maria Hill's voice says the in-ear audio. "Ready when you are, Stark."

I nod. "Let's move out."

Sam's wings unfold and metallically whine with energy. With a jutting motion of his elbows, the Falcon takes off with a shriek of wind. Rhodes soon follows him, his repulsors beaming and helmet clunking shut, the eyes lighting up.

Vision gives me an expression akin to pity, but with less bullshit. More understanding. "As soon as you feel comfortable explaining who our target is," he says. "Please know I will be _right there_ to shield him from any potential revenge-fire from the crew he has been working with."

"Thanks, Vision," I say.

His body alleviates easily into the air, and with a flex of his forearms, flies elegantly, shooting out of the hangar way more gracefully, and a little slower, than Sam and Rhodes. The cape snaps and flutters behind his receding figure.

Someone ought to explain Edna Mode to this guy. _No capes._

Clint is at the driver's wheel of one of the big black SUVs. Wanda in shotgun, Barnes in the backseat. Clint's window slides down and he gives me one of his looks. It's always a _look_ with him. It's like trying to read Braille when you need ASL.

"There's room for one more if Nat lands in the next three seconds or so," he says.

"It's not going to happen. She's hours out - I'm pretty sure she was in Fort Congor or some shit. We can't wait for her," I shake my head. "We've got to get into position before they do. _Long_ before they do, otherwise, they'll see us coming across the water, guaranteed." My helmet swings up and over my head, clamping shut with an iron click. The eyes light up instantly, and F.R.I.D.A.Y brings up the virtual screens with data for the flight. "We'll see you soon."

Clint taps an invisible cap at his head, rolls up the window, and releases the brake.

My repulsors shudder with squealing blue energy, and lift-off throws my stomach into the same knot I get every time - the thrill of flying in my own invention that has never gone away, the PTSD from nearly getting trapped in space, the anticipation of what is going to happen this evening, and a new feeling I'm entirely unprepared for - my grief, overwhelming me.

 _Jesus Christ, Steven._

 _You shouldn't have left us like that. You didn't deserve that._

 _Any of it._

 _If I could go back somehow and exchange places with you, I would. You deserve this life more than anyone._

I shoot out of the hanger into the night sky, passing over the SUV as it pulls into the downtown Manhattan traffic. Usually cell phone flashes go off in the square where people wait to catch a glimpse of us, but this late, it's relatively empty.

Three a.m. can't come soon enough.

"Mic off for a moment, please, Friday," I say.

I don't need the rest of the team to listen to the huffing and puffing of my weeping.

"Yo uh… all-seeing dude that Thor's told us so much about," I say out loud, choking out the words between shuddering breaths. "Humdull. Heimdall? Yeah. Heimdall. Y'know I'm not all about this omnipresence, thing, here, but if by any chance you're listening… I need you to get a message to Thor for me. Tell him it's from, um, Friend Stark. He'll get it. Listen. Maybe you can see me so you already know that."

I feel stupid, but I continue.

"If you wouldn't mind extending an invitation to Thor. I'm sorry to tell him like this, but, there's going to be a funeral in a few days… I know - I know he would want to know." I take a deep breath. "Steve Rogers is dead. There was a shooting - not just a shooting. I mean. He was murdered. If you wouldn't mind breaking the news to him. And I'm sorry."

I sigh.

"Um… yeah. Come to the funeral if you can. He would want you here. He'd want his team here. Over and out, I guess. Friday? Back online, please."

...

* * *

 **Winter Soldier - Bucky Barnes**

* * *

...

We've been sitting in the SUV for awhile now. We've been in position long before the cars of the enemies rolled into place and the exchange tersely began. Somewhere, our flightier teammates are perched like gargoyles out of sight in trees. I know for a fact that Stark is hiding in the nearest silo.

I glance at my watch for the millionth time.

"If you do not stop that, I will break your wrist," Wanda says crisply.

"Before a fight?" I ask. "Thanks a lot."

"Don't make me turn this car around, kids," Clint mutters.

I roll my eyes. Just because he's a father and the crankiest bastard I've ever met, Clint Barton thinks he's got some sort of edge on how bossy he gets to be. I'd put him way at the bottom of the hierarchy. Maybe that's my own ego talking, but I was Steve's right hand man. If anything, Clint should be looking to me to make decisions tonight.

I wince and shake my head. Sometimes I don't know when the Winter Soldier forms a personality, something entirely self-centered, cruel, proud, and overconfident. Either it's what Hydra programming creates as a symptom, or this is what happens when my grief-stricken thoughts are uninhibited.

Maybe I'm just an awful person. Maybe Hydra gets out of my head, and I'm just as bad as I was before.

"What's happening now?" Clint asks, trying not to sneak a glance at his own watch.

"They're just… talking. Looking at the merch." Banner's voice on the comms sounds thick and bored. Like he hasn't slept in eight years and couldn't give a damn about it.

"That's the exchange," comes Tony Stark's excited voice. "That's it. They did it. They bought it. The parties are splitting."

"We did it!" Sam says with relief. "Cap knew it'd happen. We did it."

"Don't celebrate quite yet," Clint urges. "We still need to stop two separate parties once they are safely far enough away so that they can't join forces…"

"We're not waiting anymore," Stark snaps with frustration. "We're going in. Move in! Avengers, move in!"

Clint pushes the shift out of park and slams his heel down on the accelerator. We shoot forward, headlights blasting on and nearly going entirely airborne over the asphalt road curving between the inland buildings and the lots and warehouses of the logging company. It takes less than ten seconds to cut off the Vulture's two getaway cars trying to exit north.

The car swerves, tires digging just a little too deep into the ground, and nearly spins. But Clint expertly puts it into park, slithers up through the sunroof, and unfolds a bow that must have been stashed in his sleeve somehow. He's got it aimed right for the driver of the first car in the line up. The one they call the Muscle, Herman Schultz.

If any of them recognize me, I hope they're all good actors.

Stark's light and repulsing engines are heard before they're felt, and when he slams into the ground, the earth shakes a little. He lands somewhere behind the Vulture's cars, pointing his palms towards the fleeing Hydra vehicles. With metallic shrieks following by _pops_ of hot, explosive air, the cars light up in flames and the tires explode. He straightens and watches, inevitably pleased with himself.

The Vulture's car and truck slam on their brakes, kicking up dust into the beams of headlights. I can see their heads inside swiveling around, fearfully looking at Mallick's sedans on fire behind them, and us blocking their exit.

Rhodes and Falcon come in at Stark's 9 and 4, flanking Hydra and pointing their wrist shooters in the direction of the occupants.

"Fuck this shit," I hear, and Schultz's car is shooting back in reverse at a ridiculous speed. The truck unloads, goonies pointing automatic weapons in our direction to give them time to turn around.

Wanda throws open her door and jumps out at a run, just as the bullets begin to fly and the air is entirely overwhelmed with the loud _POP POP POP_ of automatic gunfire. Both from Vulture's boys and from the guard dogs with Hydra, shooting out of their windows - glass bursts out first, then the bullets, the pounding ricochets loud in my ears.

I follow right on her heels, into the pandemonium. Can't let her have all the fun.

She twists her fingers into projecting a bubble-like shield in front of us, glittering with red veins and a translucent sheen. Hawkeye is firing arrows over our heads, right into the tires of Schultz's car. Wanda follows the trail of Clint's arrows, blasting red splatters of energy at every movement inside.

I'm close enough to jump right into one of truck's passenger doors, shoving it closed over the hand of someone pointing a gun out of it. The frame slams onto his arm, breaking his wrist, knocking the gun out of his hands. With a cry, he falls back inside, and I rip the door off, chucking it over the top of the truck. It effectively slides into - and possibly decapitates - the man on the other side getting out of the driver's seat. Whomever is trying to get out of the backseat on the other side screams and ducks, as if that will do him any good.

I kick the truck away from me, and the whole truck bed moves several feet, mowing down whomever was hiding by the back tire.

"Heads up!" Clint calls.

I drop, and an arrow sails right through the back right passenger window, into the chest of the man who was still waiting in the back, lowering a gun out of the darkness and waiting for a clear shot to my head.

I roll out of the way, checking Wanda. Schultz is coming out of the driver's seat, looking murderous. Schultz is probably the only one whose weapon could even do real damage - like her own manipulative powers, his shocking-gauntlet sends bolts of white and blue energy that collide and explode with her own, causing freak reactions to push them both away from each other with searing heat.

I spy Peter Parker jump out of the back and run for it. He doesn't run away into the darkness, though, despite having a clear line of escape. Between Wanda's zapping, singing tendrils of psionic energy darting out like lightning bolts, and where the Iron-Men are taunting the Hydra dealer's oddly slow-to-emerge combatants, there's a clear weak point where he could easily jump a fence and head east, maybe even escape from us if he wanted.

But I don't think he wants to.

Instead, Peter runs straight for the Hydra operatives stepping out of their vehicles. They're flexing - smiling - spoiling for the inevitable fight.

"Hiya, Mr. Stark!" Peter greets shrilly, blazing right past him. He runs up the hood of the closest car, plunges his hand right through the back windshield, and withdraws a briefcase in one hand to the tune of shattering glass.

Stark realizes it just too late, when he's suddenly overtaken by the watchdogs, the bullets bouncing off his iron-armor. He glares at them in annoyance before beginning to take them out one by one.

"I'll just be taking this back, thanks!" Peter announces way too loudly.

I fucking _knew it._ I knew it but I couldn't be sure but - there it is.

Adrian Toomes emerges from the shadows of the passenger seat, and without much ceremony, jolts on a pin on his aviator's jacket. A pair of metal wings, at least twelve feet in diameter, unleash and expand from a dark container attached to the rack of the car. The kind one might keep skiing gear in.

The wings make a horrible sound like hydraulics on a semi truck when they escalate to their full width, dropping over his shoulders and attaching with winding, clicking metal unfolding of their own accord just like Stark technology.

Just like that, they push on the air, stirring up dirt devils and jettisoning Toomes into the air.

Giyera - I know him all too well from his reputation amongst the best soldiers of Hydra - gracefully somersaults backwards almost with no realistic weight balance onto the roof of the car, catching Peter Parker right in the chin with his heel, and bringing them both down into the ground, sprawling into the dirt. The briefcase goes flying, pauses in mid-air, and swings back towards Giyera. He catches it in one hand, betraying his telekinesis powers to Peter.

"Whoa!" he exclaims. "Did you just use the Force?"

I feel something yank on the back of my jacket, and then I'm flying through the air like a scarecrow in a strong wind. I sail right through the wall of the nearest structure, taking out the paneling with a crash, wood scraping up my body and face and engulfing me of the darkness within. The buildings are too old and worn down for security systems, so no lights or alarms erupt.

From the hole in the wall flies the Vulture, plunging through like a kamikaze, blocking my view of the fight outside. I can hear the sounds of Stark and Rhodes shooting and shouting, the Hydra operatives beginning to show their mettle, playing their decks one card at a time. Something hits the warehouse roof above our heads and rolls all the way back down, the clatter echoing loudly. I turn off my comms.

"Howdyy, pardner," Vulture says sarcastically. "Thought we should have a minute to talk."

"Talkings over," I snarl, pushing a dribble of blood away from the corner of my mouth. "You threw me through a building."

"You killed four of my men."

"Technically, only two for certain, one allegedly, and the fourth has an arrow in his throat."

"Don't be a smartass."

"I know you've been selling people out to the CIA," I croak. "I saw Steve's notes."

"Captain America thinks I'm a squealer, huh?"

"We know you've been selling out or killing the other buyers. Was that Everett Ross's command? To kill Ulysses Klaue?"

"You think you got us all figured out, don't you?" Vulture grins wickedly. "Why do you care so much?"

I fly towards him and catch him by the middle before he can use his wings to lift himself up out of reach. Climbing up him like a ladder, I get one elbow cranked around his arm to keep it away, and my other hand finds his throat. "If you told Everett Ross - that I'm… with Hydra…" I growl.

"I never gave anyone up," Vulture growls, shoving at my hand. "That wasn't going down already anyway."

He's goading me and I know it, and he knows I know it. He flies back and hits the other wall by the opening. I catch a glimpse of Peter Parker flying through the air, slamming into Rhodes in mid-air, and falling to ground.

"You bent my helmet in!" Rhodes shouts down. Vulture looks over, distractedly. If he hasn't realized that Parker is the informant yet, he will soon.

"Who did you sell the vibranium bullets to?" I ask, grappling his arms and trying not to lose my grip. If I let go, he flies out of reach, and I'm trapped on the ground. There's no obvious way to get high in here, it's relatively empty except for a forklift parked in a dark corner on the other end.

"Oh, is THAT what you care about? Who offed Captain America?"

"I know that tech is yours!" I lose my grip on him and twist down anyways, catching his leg on the way down and tugging down hard. Something pops in his foot, and he growls, his wings slicing the air over my head. He can't fly and use them as daggers simultaneously, he's going to have to choose which maneuver suits him better.

"Sure, we fucking make the tech, but we don't pull the trigger, you boneheaded antique!" Vulture kicks me right in the face, and I fall backwards. He grabs the nearest exposed beam in the roof, and his wings curl down like those creepy angel-wing tattoos. I push myself up to my feet, glowering.

"Alexander Pierce purchased those bullets for-fucking-ever ago," Vulture says, "Gave them to god-knows-who for the hit." His wings expand again, like when birds of prey see something they're about to kill. I unsheath my knife behind my back. "Maybe I'll tell the CIA it was _you_ that shot him."

I throw my arm out, one small twist and glint in the air, and the knife plunges right through the mechanism of the left shoulder wing. The wing sparks and fizzles, metal groaning and shrieking, the individual feathers like twitching blades retracting and expanding as if they don't know what the correct command is.

Toomes curses and throws himself out the hole again, his balance thrown off and the other wing over-compensating. His flight spins him around, sending him feet-first through Vision in mid air. I realize too late Vision was carrying Peter Parker out of the fight, probably from Stark's implicit command. He passes through him like nothing, and falls onto the other side, taking Parker with him.

I stumble out of the building, watching Peter scramble away from Vulture's wings as he tries to right himself. Vision swoops down to catch him again, but Peter evades him.

"I'm not ready to go JUST YET!" he barks over his shoulder.

Vision sighs and zooms after him like an annoyed, flying babysitter.

Wanda is engaged with Giyera, probably the only one in Hydra's group giving her a fair fight. Mallick is nowhere to be seen, Vulture gets up just in time to collide with Rhodes. Metal wings on metal fists twist and fight in the air like a nature documentary of two birds fighting while in flight.

I wonder if anyone noticed how long Vulture and I were in the building _not_ fighting.

"Give me a lift?" I call out to Stark. Without wasting a second, Stark grabs me by the shoulders, lifts off into the air with a rocket-sound, and throws me just as hard - if not harder - than Vulture throwing me into the building. This time, I slam into Toomes's back, surprising him just as much as I surprise Rhodes.

Stark flies off the other direction. "Eyes on Mallick?" he shouts. "Anyone? Eyes on Mallick and his bodyguard?"

I withdraw my second knife from my belt, my weight dragging him down as I loop one arm around his neck - trying to cut off his air supply. Vulture snarls and screams at me incoherently, luckily my elbow cinches tight and keeps Vulture from saying anything too damning. Rhodes's visor suddenly flips up, and his eyes are wide with surprise.

"Barnes!" he says. I think he wants to ask me to not kill him, so we can question him. But he doesn't get the question out, Vulture's fists bash into the open visor.

I'm not leaving this loose end.

The Vulture's wings keep snaking back, the points of the feathers driving into my shoulders and back, trying to break my hold. Again with the weapons or flight - he can't do both. He can't let his wings continue to pierce the armor of my uniform and still remain mid-air. Rhodes sees the dilemma and throws another solid three punches in Vulture's face.

I stab my blade between the wing contraption and where the aviator jacket leaves a space of unprotected leather over one shoulder. The blade shudders and pierces the soft muscle above his shoulder blade.

"GUUUHHHH!" Vulture growls.

It feels like an electric shock goes off, and his wings react spasmodically. One shoots off straight to the left, the other curls around like a dead claw and cuts right through the rockets attached to Rhodes's back. "Aw shit!" Rhodes exclaims. "Rocket-man down!" He starts to spin out of control, forced away by his own backfiring back-repulsors. Soon he's out of reach of both Vulture and I.

Falcon flies up to him, catches his arm, and plants a small device onto his back. It unfolds into a temporary, secondary rocket to balance out the direction he flies. And just in time, too, because he's pursued by the man with glowing hands. No, not glowing - actually on fire. Flames come out of his burning fists like blow torches, and he can use them like palm repulsors too, pushing him high off the ground and fist-first into Rhodes's face. Falcon's yellow jolts of energy zap towards him from his wrist shooters. The three of them are completely engaged now, and it's just me verses Vulture.

"You can't harm me," says Vulture, my elbow loosening just enough for him to heave aa breath and snarl, "You're programmed, you fucking rat - programmed to keep the Avengers from me!"

We grapple in the sky, twisting and gripping, my hold is coming loose. He has the advantage of having wings, despite the dilemma of one trying to keep in flight, the other twisting and curling. It spins us in circles.

"Well, I'm not an Avenger, am I?" I whisper. "I'm the fucking Winter Soldier."

The blade of my knife finds the back of his neck. I plunge it in up to the hilt, the vibration of gore shakes my arm to the elbow.

Vulture goes limp and we begin to fall, the wings elongating and stretching upwards like sails that can't catch a wind.

I didn't realize how _high_ we'd come. It's probably going to be fine - but - I'm prepared for this to hurt a helluva lot.

Something small collides with me, crashing into my waist milliseconds before hitting the ground, curling up around me and breaking my fall. We hit the ground several times, bouncing off, colliding, heads knocking together and falling again.

When we come to a stop, I groan into the dust and lift my head.

Peter Parker grins down at me sheepishly. "Nice of you to drop in," he says.

…

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 **as always, this wouldn't be possible without my beta, Queen of Crystallopia, the devil on my shoulder, the queen of fan fiction, the fiffer to end all fiffers. Love you girl ;)**

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 **Reviewer Replies**

EleanorGardner - Good news, I am working on the next chapter for WHERE THEY GO right now :) Since the story is winding down I've been avoiding it because I don't want it to end, haha. But I'm giving in and getting the last chapter (maybe two chapters, not sure yet) written. I'm hoping to have time to post it this weekend! Thank you so much for following and supporting both, you're a gem! (hugs!) (glad you caught the HP reference lol)

cargumentluv - I have two words of advice for you... STAY NERVOUS lol XD Thanks for reading my dear. Love your reviews!

LoonyLovegood1981 - So glad you are enjoying! There's still LOTS more to come! Thank you so much for your reviews, they make my heart happy!

Sakura-Fiction - God's plan indeed XD Fantastic timing. Also, your cinnamon roll thing made me laugh so loudly. I immediately sent it to Queen of Crystallopia and was like LOOK AT THIS! Ironically me and my friends had just broken down our dungeons and dragons characters into cinnamon rolls vs killers that same day lol. And yup, Aaron Davis was an undercover agent for Nick Fury. I've been sneaking in little hints of it from the beginning. I think the biggest one was during the Klaue sale, Bucky is watching the screens and he thinks to himself that Davis seems like the rat because that "chill" attitude was "clearly a routine" XD I hope this chapter was long enough for your liking! It's a long one for sure! So thankful for your reviews. Bless.

Starnight5 - I am wondering how far you could throw Bucky... lol... XD He resisted for as long as he could and finally unleashed him where it counts! haha! Keep those fingers crossed for a bit longer, okay? (APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE)... sending hugs...

gammathetaalpha - thanks so much for your review! I am glad you're enjoying the slower build up of the Stark/Peter pseudo-dad relationship. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for reading :)

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 **NEXT: ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... sorry**


	23. Have Violent Ends

**All the warnings - all the graphic violence and fighting and stuff, all the language, death death death death death, etc etc etc**

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 **CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Have Violent Ends**

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 **Fight, Flight, Freezing -** _ **Peter Parker**_

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At first, my indecisiveness nearly kills me.

Do I fake this still? Play along until it's too late to explain otherwise?

We're leaving, and the microprocessors are going the over way.

We're _leaving,_ and I'm leaving with them… I can't _leave_ with them _again?! WHAT AM I DOING?_

I was wrong about Barnes. The Avengers are here. If he was the mole, I'd be all alone.

 _They're here. I was wrong. I was wrong. I was wrong._

I'm so relieved that I grin and nearly start crying.

 _The Avengers came for me. Bucky Barnes told them. He's not the rat. Captain America's best friend could never be the rat, I'm an idiot._

Suddenly a blast of red energy engulfs the car, stopping our reverse. Bolts of electric power that almost looks animated, like cartoon lightning, zips through the windows and upholstery and sends heat-searing pain up through our bodies. Toomes and Schultz both curse loudly.

I've got to bail. I've got to bail _now._

Schultz slams on the brakes.

"We gotta fight out way outta this one, boss," he announces. I recognize the psionic energy - that's Scarlet Witch. And she has no idea I'm on the good side.

Hell no.

It's done.

I'm done.

It's time for me to get those microprocessors, I think.

I pop the door and leap out of the back of the car, leaving Schmidt and Vulture to their own doom. To hell with them. They've made it perfectly clear they'd turn on me in a heartbeat if they needed to, and there's no reason for me to not do the same.

Especially if I need to, like, save the world, right?

My feet pound the dirt as I race back towards the sedans that Hydra drives away from the scene. I _might_ be able to catch up if I had my web shooters, shooting streams of web up to the power poles, swinging past them and landing on the nose of the car, saying something funny and witty - god, I miss being Spiderman.

Guess I'll have to do it the old fashioned way.

Mr. Stark has his palm-repulsors pointed at the sedans like a cowboy aiming his gun for stagecoach bandits. I already know they're not just going to pop out of their cars with their hands up, offering surrender.

So I rush right past Mr. Stark, calling out to him in greeting. "Hiya, Mr. Stark!"

Iron-man does a double take. "What the hell…? Kid! Stop!"

I run up the hood of the closest car, right past Giyera, the redhead, and two of the bearded guys.

I plunge my hand through the back windshield, and withdraw the briefcase in one hand to the tune of shattering glass.

"I'll just be taking this back, thanks!" I announce, holding it over my head. "Someone ought to…"

Suddenly I catch a dark shoe right in the mouth. Giyera shows off gymnastic ability of spinning in mid air like a tumbler in the olympics with no beam, kicking me right in the face and sending me flying off the car and into the dirt. The briefcase sails out of my hand, pauses in mid-air, and then zooms back into Giyera's outstretched hand like it is his own personal Asgardian hammer.

"Whoa!" I gasp. "Did you just use the Force?"

I see Vulture rise in the air, his wings having unfolded from the carrier and automatically attaching to the straps on his back like some sort of prehistoric-looking Stark tech.

I feel that clutch of fear, the muscle memory of hiding who I am from him, but he's not even looking at me. Though that doesn't stop me from ducking low to the ground, not just avoiding Giyera's sudden launch towards my face, but keeping Vulture from seeing me.

It's useless. Vulture's in full attack mode on the new guy and not even looking this way - the one with the long dark hair and the tired, shadowed eyes. That must be him, James Barnes.

He looks really different than the picture in my history book.

Vulture grabs him by the back of the jacket and throw him across the lot and into the side of the building like he weighs nothing. Oof, ouch.

Giyera leaps over another one of Tony Stark's beams of light, each shot - with every squeal and subsequent explosion - keeping him from getting to me. Giyera weaves like a snake, dodging each one, getting further and further away from us each time. Making his escape with the briefcase.

"Kid, MOVE!" Mr. Stark shouts, focusing his fire on the non-enhanced guards with the heaviest artillery. They're ducking behind the cars, shooting, ducking again. Stark takes them out one by one... "Vision? Operation GET PARKER THE HELL OUT IS IN FULL EFFECT!"

High above, I see Sunburned-James-Dean using flames like Stark uses repulsors, only the flames are coming right out of his hands. That explains the red skin.

He flies over head, caught in a bubble of Scarlet Witch's red energy. The bubble slams him down on top of the warehouse, where he tumbles head over heel and lands with a thump.

When he tries to get to his feet, Falcon slides out of nowhere and cuts him off, knocking him back into the ground. Then suddenly they both rise in the air, the flames from Sunburn jetting sporadically out at intervals, causing his body to rise up, down, and up again, like a puppet on a string being fought over. Falcon flies in tandem, punching, kicking, cursing, and otherwise trying to shoot him down with tiny yellow zapping bullets from his wrist rockets, and failing because he's too fast.

Giyera runs for Scarlet Witch, bringing up objects with his free hand. Handfuls of dirt, rocks, chunks broken from the tires they lit on fire, even one of the bodies of Vulture's men - Ralphio, I realize, leaning limply against the back tire of the truck. He throws them in her direction, and with red-eyes flashing, she moves into the defensive, tossing arcs of energy up like a fountain, knocking the arsenal away. Schultz lays beside her in a heap.

Electrocuted, dead, maybe. Like Quinn - Marcus - and the others -

Shit. _Not my team._

 _It doesn't matter. It can't matter any more._

A pair of hands grabs my shoulders and yanks me off the ground. I shout loudly, afraid it's the Vulture, and I turn like a wet cat preparing to fight -

It's Vision. _The_ Vision.

"Oh, hey there," I say awkwardly. "Big fan."

We're flying straight up into the sky like it's no big deal. And he doesn't even have webs. "Holy SHIT!" I realize. "Oh jeeze - we're flying -"

This time we're - or at least, I'm - body slammed entirely by the Vulture on full flight-mode and not even close to looking where he is going. His wings flinch and careen from side to side, clearly malfunctioning - but from what, I don't know.

Vision loses his grip on me from the weight of Adrian Toomes passing through him like a ghost, and colliding with me in the air, sending us both to the hard, unforgiving ground.

I bounce off, tucking and rolling out of the way, body entirely battered with the impact and gasping from the wind knocked out of me. I crawl up and out of the way of Vulture's wings, avoiding the crazy robotic feathers like knives stabbing the air.

Vision swoops above me again.

"I'm not ready to go JUST YET!" I exclaim, taking off at a run. If anything, at least if the Vulture were to look over here, it looks like I'm on the run from an Avenger, keeping my cover somewhat intact. In case I still need it...

But that's not why I'm running away from Vision.

Hawkeye looks like he needs backup.

Hawkeye is locked in deadly combat with the redheaded girl. Their bodies twisting and ducking and weaving like dancers. I knew Hawkeye was the guy with the bow and arrow, but when it comes to the hand to hand combat I'm seeing right now, this guy is UNREAL.

I mean I guess if you're sort of well known as the guy who fought Black Widow before she was SHIELD, then you have to be pretty good at that stuff.

Redhead smiles at Hawkeye, and he smiles back at her.

"What're you hiding, Red?" he taunts.

She shakes a little in place, and suddenly, from beside her, as if some trick of the light had kept her hidden all along, a twin steps out from a space that didn't even exist beside her. And then from behind, a second one appears - triplets?

And then from the side closest to me, the air shudders, and there's a fourth. They all smile at Hawkeye - wait, wrong, one turns and smiles at me.

So…she keeps evil clones inside her body. Great.

"So - uh - you guys gonna execute order 66 or what?" I demand, I skidding to a halt way too close to her. "Oh SHIT!" I exclaim, ducking from a fist that goes flying towards my face. She did not like my clone joke.

"Shut up!" at least two of the clones exclaim at once.

I see Hawkeye curl up and under, bobbing and weaving and laying out punches like he fights redheaded girls every day.

Two of them grapple with him, kicking and fighting with a more crazy, less experienced vibe. Using too much element of surprise and not enough assassin skills. This is what I face now, plowing head first into one of them and trying to knock her off her feet. She punches me in the side of the head two, three times, but I've knocked one to the ground - lost sight of the other one -

Vision casually throws her so hard that she shrieks until she disappears, and I hear a splash in the river. Then he grabs me, yanks me backwards, and throws me down to the dirt behind him.

"Hey!" I squeak.

Vision advances on the third redhead, and she backs away. Suddenly, she turns to nothing - disappears with a sort of watery _schwooop_ through the air, and there's nothing but one redhead, caught in the crook of Hawkeye's elbow. The host that the others appear or withdraw back into depending on how capable she is at that moment. And right now, with Hawkeye overpowering her, she can't maintain them.

She's losing air and tapping out. "Yield," she whispers, her eyes fearful, angry. "I yield."

She looks at me with that same look of understanding I felt before. She doesn't want to be here. She just fell in with the wrong crowd.

Hawkeye nods at me. "Thanks for the assist."

"No problem," I respond raspily. Uneasily. I still don't know who the leak is in Avengers Tower. Hawkeye has a similar fighting style, but I think he's shorter than the man I fought in the construction lot. _And_ he was one of the original 6 Avengers.

It couldn't be _him._

"Clint Barton."

"Peter Parker."

"Nice to finally meet Steve's big secret." He gives me a critical glance. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

"I say the same thing in the mirror every morning," I chirp.

Suddenly I notice Falcon zoom like a jet overhead, pursuing the sun-burnt flame man, who flies right into Rhodes and knocks out one of the jetpacks. I see Mr. Stark press a hand to his head, like he's getting bad news over his comms. He zooms up into the air, disappearing out of my line of sight. He heads south. I notice one of the cars is missing.

My eyes flick over towards the dark eyed one - Mr. Barnes, I think - fighting with the Vulture. There's a loud cry, and Barnes's fist is driving down, and the wings react even worse than before. Rhodes and Falcon are both distracted by the flaming-fist-man, leaving just Mr. Barnes clinging to one of Vulture's wings, letting go of it briefly, falling, catching the Vulture's jacket. Even in mid-flight, he climbs back up his body and gets him in a choke hold. It's impressive, but he's going to need help eventually…

"Can we do the Gimli thing?" I ask.

Vision looks at me. "And what is that?"

Hawkeye snaps a pair of cuffs that cuts off enhancement abilities over the wrists of the redhead, shoves her to the ground, shouts, "SIT! STAY!" and rushes towards Wanda, where Giyera is tiring her out, evading and dancing around her like mosquito.

Suddenly, Barnes and Vulture are falling.

"TOSS ME NOW!" I scream at Vision.

I'm both relieved and surprised that he does exactly as I ask, grabbing me unceremoniously and throwing me right for Barnes. I sail through the air, the cold wind stinging my eyes. I body slam him around the waist, catching him mid-fall and bringing him down with me so I can absorb most of the impact.

Gravity sucks us down into the dirt with an unforgiving _SLAB_ of impact.

I roll away from him and groan. He's really _heavy._ I lift my head and glance over at my friendly trebuchet. Vision helps Hawkeye and Wanda overpower Giyera. Vision manages to snake his arms through Giyera's gymnastics, dematerializing and then rematerializing a half second too quick for someone even as powered as Giyera to handle.

He tries to use his telekinesis to push Wanda's energy-zaps away from himself and back to her, which she easily avoids. Vision rips the briefcase out of his hand, pressing a button on his wrist. Mechanical cuffs, identical to the ones Hawkeye used on the redhead, fly out of his gauntlets and latch onto Giyera's arms.

He's down. Finally.

Vision hands the briefcase to Hawkeye with a waning smile.

I take a deep breath and push myself to my feet. _OW._ Everything hurts.

"Nice of you to drop in," I grin stupidly at Barnes.

"You broke my fall," Barnes says in a surprised tone, lifting his head.

"Well," I shrug, "I'd rather prevent it. Otherwise I'd have to Avenge you."

I hold out my hand. He takes it, and I jerk him to his feet. "I'm Peter. Peter Parker," I say, feeling suddenly shy. "I think we spoke on the phone, Mr. Barnes?"

"Call me Bucky," he says, "All my friends do."

"Bucky," I shake his hand happily, and then release it. "Thank you for coming tonight. I was… I was worried…"

"You don't have to be afraid anymore," Bucky says firmly. "The Avengers will always come when..."

There's a choking sound behind us.

We both glance over, where Adrian Toomes lays in a crumpled heap, pierced through the middle by his own wing, the tip curled up under him and coming through the center of his abdomen, coated in blood.

There's blade wounds seeping dark crimson at his neck and through his jacket. He's choking on his own blood, lungs filling up with fluid.

"Y-yugh, yugh," he coughs out, eyes demon-like and narrowed at me. I feel overwhelmed with nothing but pity for him.

"You too?" Toomes manages. "Huh. Pedro... and-and ...Davis. Conspirators."

Vision glides serenely towards us. "Come, Mr. Parker," he says. "We are supposed to leave."

"Just… hold on. For a moment."

I kneel down beside Toomes, pressing my hand into the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. He knows I can't do anything for him. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

Toomes gurgles. "I trusted you."

"I'm sorry," I repeat, my voice giving out.

"You break my heart, kid," he manages. "Fucking Pedro."

I don't know what to say. I shouldn't say anything at all. I keep my hands pressed against the knife wounds, dark blood continuing to surge between my fingers.

"Don't tell Doris… Liz... how I went, okay?" he tries.

I remember him mentioning a wife and daughter. And that his daughter went to my old school. I try to place the name, my mind racing through memories. He couldn't be talking about… Liz…

"Liz Allen?" I whisper, horrified.

"Promise me," he gasps.

I owe him nothing. _Nothing._ He tortured and killed and cheated and robbed his way into this business. He broke my arm. He terrorized me. Hundreds of others. He provided weapons to anyone who could hand him some money. He's a mass murderer. He sure as hell was involved in Captain America's death, even indirectly.

I shake my head, the tears coming hot and fast now.

"Promise," he groans, the growl coming from deep within his lungs.

He turns his face away, so he does not have to watch me, watch him, die.

"I promise," I finally say. I can't not say it. Not to a dying man.

No matter who it is.

Adrian Toomes breathes until he can't. His lungs still try, death rattle agonizingly thick. His body trembles and finally stops.

I punch my fist down into his chest, angrily, and then fall back onto my heels.

What's the point? He's dead too late. Maybe if he'd been the first to go, maybe whatever chain of events causing Captain America's death wouldn't have happened. If I had just walked away from it all.

Toomes offered me that chance before. At the lobster joint. I should have taken it then. Felt like years ago. If I had walked away then, Steve would still be alive. I'm sure of it.

I realize Bucky has a firm hand on my shoulder, gripping it comfortingly.

"It's going to be okay," he says. "You're free of him now." He flinches suddenly, looking the other direction, pinning a finger to his ear. "What do you mean we _missed one?"_

I assume that's Stark, talking to him over the earpiece. He had flown away so suddenly before with a not-so-happy expression.

My heart is pounding so hard from the adrenaline, not even close to wearing off. I'm high on the fight. I need to keep going, need to help, need to resolve this, bring it to a close…

Vision puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I was given an explicit command from Tony Stark that Peter Parker was to 'taken the hell out of here'."

"But I… I have information. Maybe they need me."

Bucky tunes back in, shaking his head. "You can download all this intel later. I can sit down with you when we get back and discuss everything. Honestly - now - is not the time. After a fight like this. We got to call in clean up. Run the reports. Sounds like Grant Ward is on the run…"

Vision nods. "I'll take you back to the Tower."

I gulp. "So… you're going to fly me there?"

"Indeed. There is less traffic."

It takes me a second to realize he's joking. I try to laugh, I do. But a yawn engulfs my entire face so violently my jaw pops.

Vision grasps my arms gently and throws me over his back like a school backpack. Like when I used to web them across the city and sometimes forgot where I webbed them until days later…

"Hold on tight," Vision says calmly.

"As opposed to what!" I reply nervously. Vision lifts into the air silently, as easily as if both he and I weigh nothing.

I watch as the ground falls away from us a little too quickly. The higher we go, the easier it is to see what Bucky calls 'clean up'.

I see Falcon land on the ground, his own wings folding and condensing into his backpack. He's dragging Sunburn-Flame-Hand-Man (I seriously need to learn people's names…) along beside him, the Iron-Patriot… er, War Machine, whatever name he's using now... following, looking smug but battered.

Sunburn is dripping wet, water from his lanky hair getting into his eyes. "I'm gonna kill ya!" he growls loudly. His voice is distinctly Australian.

"Aw, don't be like that, JT," Falcon says. "Or should I say, Hellfire?"

Hellfire. Really? Out of all the flame names he could have picked? He went for Hellfire?

Rhodes goes over to the middle Hydra car, looking inside. "Mallick never left the car," he announces. He grimaces and steps back. "Looks like he bit a cyanide pill or something."

"Never get caught alive, that's what those idiots prefer," Hellfire snarls.

"You got something hiding in your mouth you wana munch on?" Falcon gives him a rough shake. "Or are you gonna let us take you in?"

"Fuck that," Hellfire answers. "I want to live."

Hawkeye is talking on his comms. Wanda still stands in offensive, pointing her glowing palms in the direction of those captured wearing the cuffs, forced to sit with their wrists bound. She seems to be daring them to make a move. I wonder if one of those cuffs would work on me, too? Giyera and the redhead glare at her. Falcon pushes Hellfire down beside them.

I see Stark flying back, landing beside Rhodes at the car. Together they pull Mallick's body out of the back seat.

A cloud passes between us and the view.

"Whoa, how high ARE we?" I say a little too shrilly.

"Not high at all," Vision says comfortingly. "It's fog. Don't worry. We are nearly there."

"You're… you're right. It is faster."

"Stark would want you to go straight to the hospital wing, to…"

"I'm not _hurt._ I don't want to go to a hospital wing. Please? I just… want to find a couch or a bed or something and take a nap. That's it."

"You have your own room."

"What…?" I blink away the tears of the cold air. "Really?"

"It was prepared the day that Mr. Wilson and Captain Rogers planned on pulling you from active duty."

"Can I… can I sleep in it tonight?"

"If you wish too, I do not see any reason why not. As long as you are not injured."

"Not… at all. Well. Bruised a little. But nothing bad."

"Very well, then." Vision gives me a curious glance over his shoulder. I'm _freaked out_ by how intricate his eyes are. They look like something out of a cyberpunk graphic novel. I can see each individual rivet, no bigger than a needlepoint, piecing together the parts that used to be Ultron and the synthezoid material.

Holy shit.

I just _met_ Vision - THE Vision - and now he's giving me a ride, like we're old pals, to the Tower. _Avengers_ Tower.

Where I'm not going to be a criminal anymore.

Toomes is dead and the microprocessors have been found.

Somehow I expected to - feel it more?

Like at this point I would be cheering and crying and throwing a party and calling Aunt May and otherwise just losing my shit over it?

But I don't. I feel so little. Maybe nothing.

"Are you alright?" Vision asks.

"I don't know," I answer honestly.

"You're likely in shock," Vision says calmly. "It's not easy, to watch someone die."

"I wanted him to die," I admit, more vehemently than I expected.

"I was… referring to Captain Rogers."

I bite my lip. "Oh." And he probably doesn't even know about Davis, either. Or Jackson Brice. That's four people dead in the last day and a half. Dying right in front of me. Light leaving their eyes, just like in the movies. Only worse, because of the _sounds_ that go with it. And then when they're gone, the silence that follows.

I fear that silence now.

"All the same," Vision replies, his tone so kind, it seems unreal - but not artificial. "What you are feeling is natural. It will take you some time to adjust. You have to be patient with yourself."

"I'm tired of being patient," I whisper.

"I can understand your frustrations. Truly." Vision doesn't try to talk me out of them. It's both relieving and surprising. "Here we are."

We break through the cloud cover, the river a black hint behind us, between the twinkling orange of a slumbering city. We pass by a clock on a marquee. "It's only three thirty," I moan.

"Does this surprise you?" Vision's cape flutters behind us, making a comfortable, windy sound. Like a kite on a beach vacation. The air is cold, and the morning feels stale already. Like the sun should be rising by now.

"Yeah. It feels like years and years have gone by since…" I catch a oddly sudden gag of nausea, swallowing a panic. "Did Captain America really only just die yesterday morning?"

"Yes. Grief has a way of warping the perception of time around us," Vision slows down, and we're approaching a balcony on the tower.

It's a huge balcony, and it takes me a moment to realize it's technically a landing strip for a quinjet, opening into the side of the skyscraper. Vision steps gracefully onto the echoing surfboard-shaped strip, letting me slide easily off the side. He keeps a firm hand around my elbow, though. I think he's afraid that if he lets go, I'll just tip right over. His skin feels sort of rubbery and soft, like a cozy you'd put a beer bottle into.

Vision begins to explain everything we pass like a tour guide, clearly trying to take my mind off things. "Here we can safely land the Avengers aircraft," he narrates, "And down that hall you would find many basis of operation. Several floors down, there is the science division. Where Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark work most consistently."

I nod blearily. "Uh - yeah, yeah."

"The lower floors are several private areas. Gyms, kitchen. Employee lounges, laundry rooms."

Vision leads the way into an elevator, pressing the button for the doors to shift closed behind us. They slide closed, and I feel the urge to keep talking. Anything but an awkward silence in an elevator.

"Maybe," I say, suddenly shy about it all, "Maybe I could get a map or something."

Vision thinks about this carefully. "I shall draw one for you tomorrow."

"OH, no, I meant, if there was one already…"

Vision nods. "I understand your hesitancy out of politeness. But I assure you, it would not cause me any undue trouble. Being what I am, I possess some skills I do not often need. The capability to… render a three-dimensional architectural map of the building would take me no less than a moment or two for completion. I would be happy to do so if it makes you feel more at ease."

"Well," I say sheepishly, "Thank - thank you. That's. Really nice…" I break off and stare out the window of the elevator, mouth hanging open. "Whoa."

I didn't realize it was a window because the passing interior of the elevator shaft was white, seamless walls. But when the elevator siding opens up onto a huge lobby, I get a glimpse into some of the more public areas of the tower. The elevator descends down an inner wall, looking into a sort of indoor plaza, for about five or six stories. The cement floors are a matte gray, the walls bleachy white.

There's a huge fountain in the center in some sort of modern art piece shaped like two rectangular stones balanced on top of each other, inverted slightly so that it the top one looks like it should be tipping and falling over.

There's actual plants growing out of designated areas, as if the whole space is some sort of indoor biological garden. Palms and otherwise large-leafed jungle types. There's a cafe and several boardwalk-style white tables and white chairs.

Then the elevator is swallowed up by the shaft again and we're going down a few more floors before stopping. The doors slide open onto a wide hall, spacious and not cramped at all. It feels like a really fancy hotel. Carpeted floors, sconces on the walls, little name plates on the doors. Most of them without names. I see one for Barnes, another for Maximoff. There's more down on the left side of the hall, but we turn right and stop at a door.

A tiny gold nameplate reads _Parker._

With absolutely no sound at all, not even a wind-tunnel, suction-cup sort of sound effect one might expect from a cartoon, Vision slides right through the door and disappears.

"Holy shit," I whisper, staring at the door. I knock on it, hesitantly. Then I test the knob, and it opens slowly into a darkened apartment.

 _Apartment._ Barely.

Not a bedroom, not like a hotel. More like… a house. Without it actually being a house with a yard and a driveway. I open the door fully, shutting it behind me quietly.

I look into a comfortable living room, stuffed armchairs and a couch surrounding a glass coffee table. There's a TV in the corner, and a sliding door that goes out onto a large balcony. More like a deck, actually. A glittering kaleidoscope of the city beyond it.

The living room is on the right, and a dining room on the left. The table and chairs are dark wood, and there's a tiny chandelier over them. Instead of being crammed between the fridge and the counter, there's a whole separate door that leads into an entirely separate kitchen. When I look into the kitchen, I can see a breakfast nook on the other side of the counter, and a smaller family room with a gas fireplace.

If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't think I was in an apartment in a skyscraper. It feels like one of those really nice upper-middle class houses where a mom, dad, and three kids live erratically between ballet class, soccer practice, church on sundays, and poker on Wednesday nights.

"This is for me?" I ask confusedly. "This can't all be for me?"

"Well, technically, no," Vision says. "It's for your aunt too. We surmised you would both prefer living together for a time when she returns to the city."

My mouth drops open.

"Eventually she may want her own place, but during the transition out of the criminal life, we suspect things may be dangerous for a time," Vision beckons me to follow him, heading for the hallway entrance between the dining room wall and the living room. "Both of you can live and work here. If one of you prefers to move out at any time, you'll be welcome to do so." He reaches over and turns on the recessed lighting.

It fades in with soft, farmer-yellow tones, lighting the hallway. Two bedroom entrances. A master for Aunt May - with a big closet, and a big tub in the attached bathroom. For me, a smaller - but still spacious - bedroom, and a bathroom next to it in the carpeted hall.

I look into the bedroom, overwhelmed. There's a lot of stuff in here from the old apartment. My poster of the periodic table. My bulletin board - my desk. The old computer I was rebuilding.

It's just a lot cleaner than my old bedroom ever was. And the bed is made. I never remembered to make my bed.

I'm so overwhelmed I could cry, scream, laugh, run up the walls. But I don't do anything. I just smile softly and shut the door, rejoining Vision in the living room.

"I don't know what to say," I smile at him. "This is - this is - this is just. Crazy. Thank you. And… I mean, I'll thank Mr. Stark, too… and… Ca..."

I almost say Captain America, _Steve…_ but I bite my lip.

Vision nods understandingly. "Remember, all of this will take some getting used to. Someone will be going to your garage and collecting your things. You need not go back."

 _I don't have to go back._

I think of the way that I always associated the smell of the garage with Uncle Ben. That if I never go back to it, I'll never smell that cologne and car-oil smell ever again.

My heart flutters. "Good," I say tightly. "I don't ever want to go back."

Part of me thinks that if I intend on getting a good sleep tonight, I _should_ be going back to the garage. Like when Ned would offer to let me stay over if we stayed up too late on a Friday, but I usually opted to go back to the apartment - for my own bed. Even if I did a little webbing and crime-fighting on the way, I still ended up in my own bed.

I've been living in that garage long enough, _that's_ the new - own - bed.

Which means I probably won't sleep at all tonight.

"I will leave you to your rest," Vision says. I like how he says _rest_ and not _sleep._ It's like he knows. How does he have so much information about this stuff anyway? "There is an intercom and communications system through the entire building. By the front door you'll find an automated manual."

Oh, sure, because why have a phonebook when you can have an automated manual for an intercommunications system in a skyscraper full of superheroes?

"This feels too amazing to be real," I admit. "I feel like I'm just going to wake up and I'll be lying in the dirt after you threw me into Bucky."

Vision gives me a strange expression. "I assure you. It's no trick. And you're not unconscious." He taps the lights, and they turn down slightly to a sleepy, soft light, too dim for anything other than dozing off. "Rest well, Mr. Parker. Feel free to reach out if you need anything."

"Thank you."

Without bothering to open the front door, Vision glides right through, silently, like a really colorful ghost.

"Wow," I say again. I don't know that I'll ever get used to seeing that.

Then I look around the apartment. "WOW," I say again. "Holy - holy shit. This is ours. This is…" I slowly pull my phone from the Vulture out of my pocket. Toomes said that he's pinged our phones before… Mason even admitting to doing it multiple times.

I open the phone quickly, removing the data ship and the battery. I set the pieces on the dining room table. I'm sure I can't get rid of it, even though I'd like to. I'd love to flush it down the toilet right now. But I'm sure it will be needed as evidence later. I'm sure Stark will want to analyze it somehow.

I take out my other phone, the one for Cap and Deadpool. I hold it in my hand loosely for a moment, and then set it on the table.

I look into the kitchen, and find a set of plastic bags beneath the sink, probably for a garbage bin somewhere. I retrieve a sharpie from my desk in my bedroom. It's my actual sharpie from before I left Aunt May's. My stuff had been… weirdly preserved.

I feel like I'm walking in and out of rooms in a museum dedicated to my long dead past.

I put both phones in the plastic bag, tie it off, write EVIDENCE across the front.

Then I leave it sitting in the middle of the table, because what else would I do with it?

I stand awkwardly in the middle of the front room.

What do I do _now?_

I walk over to the intercom by the door, a sleek white cradle with holes for a speaker and an automated screen. I press the screen with one finger, and it lights up in a cheerful lavender color, and a menu of options appears.

Voice activated, says a blinking light near the bottom.

"Hello?" I say awkwardly.

It blinks back at me, and an automated female voice with an Irish accent replies back.

"Hello, I am F.R.I.D.A.Y., I am the user interface for Stark Industries. How can I help you?"

"Oh, uh, uh," I scramble to answer. This is so WEIRD. "Um - if I, if I give you a phone number, can you, uh, save it? And then call it?"

"Certainly. What number would you like me to save, and then dial?"

I recite Michelle's number from memory. I never saved her number to try and keep her safe. I delete the call logs every time I called her or texted. I never used the phone for the Vulture, only the burner phone from Cap and Deadpool.

I realize too late that it's nearly four A.M., and I'm calling her. She's probably asleep - she's always so tired because of the homework and her midnight shifts - she's probably going to be so mad…

"Hello?" her voice answers, suspiciously.

"MJ?" I ask. I know it's her voice, but still. I doubt.

"Peter?" her tone brightens. She doesn't sound groggy at all. "Are you okay? This is a different number. Wait. Never mind about the number. Don't care. Are you okay?"

"MJ," I say with relief. "I'm good. I'm okay. I'm so happy to hear your voice."

"Are you safe? Where are you?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Oh god. Prison. Am I your phone call?"

"No, oh my god, no, MJ!"

"Where are you?"

"Avengers Tower in downtown Manhattan."

Silence.

"MJ?" I ask.

"I'm going to need my roommate to come scrape me off the floor. Are you shitting me?"

"I am not. I'm here," my voice breaks a little. "MJ, I'm safe. I'm done. I'm finally done. It's over."

"What's over?" She exclaims. "Remember you never actually told me ANYTHING? You said you had to sign the Accords and that you had a direct line to Captain America and Deadpool. And that you're NOT a spy."

"I never said I wasn't a spy…"

"No. I recall distinctly," MJ says with frustration. "I remember you saying that exactly."

"I didn't…"

"No, I said - you're an Agent of Shield, and you said, you couldn't say yes or no, and you implied that I was wrong anyway…"

"I'm not an Agent of Shield," I smile.

"I'm confused."

"I _am_ a spy. Or, was, I guess. Until this morning."

"Oh," MJ stops. "Not an Agent for Shield. A spy for..."

"For the Avengers."

There is a long pause. Too long.

"MJ?" I ask timidly.

"Because you're Spider-Man," she erupts. "Tell me I'm wrong."

I laugh outright. It feels foreign to me, to laugh as something with such utter surprise and delight and to be laughing with a girl over the phone. I guess the type of thing people my age are supposed to do. "How - how," I say. "No - I mean no. I'm not. I'm…"

"Oh, stop trying to LIE, Peter Parker. You said you have to sign the Accords anyway and then it's all public," MJ groans. "Would you rather I learn the truth from you here now, or because I hack into a government database so I can read the enhanced Index for myself?"

"You can hack the index?"

"I've done it before."

"I'm… impressed."

"Don't be. It was illegal and stupid and I was sort of high on brownies by accident at a party when I was sixteen that I should not have attended and I was desperate to show off my computer skills and I didn't know they weren't normal brownies."

It's a lot of information to take in at once. "That sounds like… quite a party."

"Let's just say decathlon parties at Abe's house got a little out of hand sometimes."

"So that's how you party too hard," I giggle. "It's not booze. It's not hard drugs. It's brownies with the nerds and accessible hardware."

For a moment, I forget _everything._

I'm just a boy talking to a girl that I'm in love with.

"Don't try to distract me," MJ pleads. "Just answer me honestly for once."

It all comes flooding back.

"Yes - yes. I'm sorry. I am." I take a deep breath. "I'm Spider-Man."

Silence.

Then she hoots with laughter. "I fucking knew it!"

It's the same words she said to me in her dorm that night. "You guessed it that night, didn't you? How?"

"I'm a fucking smart lady, that's how. The way you disappeared all the time… you couldn't even _try_ to disguise your voice, even. I watched the YouTube videos too. I put it together. I doubted myself at times… convinced myself otherwise… there weren't any sightings, Spider-Man disappeared off _everything…_ the news, the streets, the internet… but I always thought, at the very back of my mind, it _had_ to be you."

I grin at the thing on the wall. For a moment I forget she's not here with me. I can't wait to invite her over.

I glance over at the couch. I can't wait to sit on _that_ couch and kiss her there. Maybe out on the balcony, beneath the lights of the city. All those stars.

"Are you mad?" I ask.

"I'm so fucking relieved." She laughs, and it sounds tired.

"I have so much to tell you," I sigh. "So many things I couldn't say before."

"And if you so much as try to leave one detail out, I will lose my _shit._ Can we promise now? No more lies? Ever? Like don't ever fucking lie to me again because I will _know_ and then you'll break my heart, Peter Parker?"

It's a lot of emotion rushing out in one sentence. I nod emphatically, and then I realize she can't see me nodding. "I promise. No more lies. Ever."

She lets out a breath. "Good."

Suddenly a yawn so gigantic practically explodes audibly out of my face. It makes my eyes stream with exhaustion tears instantly.

"Th' fuck was that?"

"A yawn…"

"Oh shit. You're right. It's like, four am." She sounds suspicious. "Why are you up this late?"

"It's a long story. I promise I'll tell you everything, but. It's just too much for right now. Let's just say we finally got what I was spying for. That's why I'm done, I get to sign the Accords, and I'm safely in the Tower for tonight." I pause. "Wait, why are YOU up this late?"

Nothing. No answer.

"Oh, I shrugged, by the way," MJ says flatly.

"OH, good, yes, thank you for that," I snicker. "Were you studying again?"

"Sort of. That's not why I stayed up."

"Why did you stay up?"

"You left me last night and you were so… so NOT okay. And it was clear to me you were off on some job. A dangerous one. So I was staying up to hear from you."

"You did that? For me?"

"Of course," she sounds a little offended. "I knew you'd call. As soon as you could."

I almost didn't, but I don't admit this. "I'm sorry I left so abruptly."

"Don't be sorry. You got your shit done, didn't you?"

"I did."

"So it was worth it."

I shut my eyes blearily. "I don't know yet."

"You sound exhausted. Get some sleep. Can I call you on this number now?"

"Yeah, I think so. It's like, uh, landline. For my room in the tower."

"Spider-Man has a room in the Avengers Tower," MJ repeats, in awe. "Shit, I'm dating a superhero."

I grin like an idiot. "We are dating, aren't we?"

"I mean… sure," I can hear her smiling too. "If your superhero thing isn't so fucked up that you feel like you can't date me for my own protection or some shit so that some crazy masked villain can't use me as bait to set a trap for the hero, right? That's how all the bad movies go."

"This whole hero thing…" I sigh. "It doesn't work out as well as they do in the movies. IF that puts you in any danger…"

"Don't you effing say it," MJ groans. "Don't say you would break up with me for my own safety. Can we just agree that if we break up, it's just because we're _taking a break_ and then we rekindle our romance over the next holiday break?"

I grin. "O-okay. Deal."

She smiles in the silence. I can _hear_ it. And I'm smiling back. But then I yawn again.

"Get some sleep," MJ urges. "Call me later."

"I will," I promise. "Sleep well."

"You, too."

She's the first to hang up, I just stand there stupidly, grinning at the communicator.

Then I take a step backwards and look at the apartment.

Wow. _Wow._

It feels so safe, and yet, so strange, and therefore unsafe. I don't know every little sound that I might hear at night. Maybe the floor above me will creak, and I'll fly across the room, run up the wall, and cling to the ceiling like a cat.

Should I change my name to Catman?

I definitely need sleep.

I don't go into my new room, though. It feels sort of wrong. Like this isn't really all for me, it's not my home. I don't belong here, as much as I didn't belong in Vulture's world. I'm stuck between them both. I'm too damaged for the Avengers - I'm too lawful for criminals.

It feels so lonely. Even when I know MJ is a call away, my new teammates - the Avengers themselves - will probably come back to the Tower tonight. Well, not all of them. Probably just the ones that live here. Mr. Stark is probably going back to some mansion somewhere with Ms. Potts. I think Hawkeye lives out in the country somewhere. I don't know where Falcon is from, but he seems like the type of person who either lives here, or went out and got himself a hole-in-the-wall apartment in a bad neighborhood just so that he can have a good view of the river. He seems like the type of guy who likes to fly near the waterfront on his off hours.

I sit on the couch. It's really soft. I'd forgotten what that felt like.

Suddenly I feel every ache, every busted lip or black eye, broken or bruised rib I'd endured for this whole ordeal. Even my arm that had been busted feels a little twingy. Ghost pains are talking to me because I'm finally sitting and relaxing fully.

I gingerly lower myself down onto the cushions. There's a throw blanket thrown over the back, and I drag this down and spread it over myself, curling up into the folds and taking a deep breath.

For a moment I stare at the wall above the TV. I get up, turn down the light all the way, and let my eyes adjust to the city lights coming in through the sliding balcony doors. In the pumpkin-yellow light, I maneuver carefully so I don't trip on the coffee table and reposition myself on the couch.

"Hey FRIDAY?" I ask sheepishly.

"How can I help?" she replies instantly.

"Um. Can you, uh, let me know when they - the Avengers, I mean - get back?"

"Certainly. Would you like me to play some soft music in the meantime? It might help you fall asleep."

"Oh," I say with surprise. "That's… that's nice. But, I think I'm okay. Thank you. Just let me know when - if - any of them - come back."

"Of course."

The room is silent again.

I shift from side to side, hug my knees, bury my face.

I'm exhausted but the sleep won't… can't… come.

"I need to cry," I say out loud. "I'll feel better."

Nothing.

"Come on, cry, Spider-Man, cry," I urge myself.

Still nothing. I heave a little, my chest aching. My heart feels entirely wound up, tied off with string, clenched and unable to process. Steve Rogers is dead - I saw him die. Aaron Davis died and he was a secret spy like me all along. Jackson Brice was always the asshole I thought he was, but he died - and I'm still sad about it. Because of all the people the Vulture worked with, he seemed like the type of guy who needed redemption the most.

Therefore making his abrupt end - without a second chance - that much more tragic. I wanted him to get better, be better. I hoped that for him. And now he's gone too.

I wonder how Schultz went out. I saw his body by the Scarlet Witch during the fight. Looking back on it, I don't know that he was dead. He could have been unconscious.

What if he goes free?

NO… no. Stop thinking so negatively.

Maybe taking a walk will help me get tired enough to sleep.

"Hey Friday?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to - take a walk."

"Very well."

I almost expected her to tell me to stay in my room. To ask how I expect her to tell me when the Avengers get back if I'm not near the comms. Maybe there's comms everywhere and she can just alert me from anywhere in the building. But she doesn't try to stop me, so I feel confident that it's not a bad thing to wander the facility at night.

It's not like Hogwarts or anything. Filch won't appear out of dark corners screaming "Students! Students out of bed!"

I use the bathroom and shower first (fancy soap… fancy ceramic...) and change into clean clothes in the bedroom. It's weird using real plumbing. I haven't had a hot shower in… I don't remember the last time.

I put on dark gray athletic sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and a bright red hoodie, zipped halfway up. It's the cleanest I've felt in awhile.

I slip on a pair of chuck taylors before walking carefully and quietly out into the hallway. At first I try to follow the same route that Vision and I took, but it seems useless after a moment. My curiosity and excitement start to override the entire purpose of trying to make myself sleepier.

I'm at the Avengers Tower?! _LIKE HOLY SHIT?!_

I leave the living quarters and I find communal rooms, like a big kitchen, sitting room with a pool table. An indoor swimming pool, and a gym. I go up the stairs, skipping the elevator. Every third story or so and there is an opening in the stairwell, and I can look out into a different area. At one point, I think I'm looking down into the labs where I'll be working with Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner.

Hanging out with two of my heroes and just… doing science stuff every day? Upgrading my web fluid - or better yet, showing Mr. Stark how to replicate it? Maybe hovering over Mr. Stark as he designs new tech? Offering suggestions?

The possibilities swell within me, and it makes me smile, despite the depression of grief threatening the edges of my thoughts.

I go up several more floors. I've lost count at this point, and I'm tired enough to switch to the elevator. Since I _am_ feeling sleepier, I should be marching right back to my apartment. But no. I'm too curious now for that, too hyped on seeing the tower in the dead of night while there's no one here. Or at least, no one that bothers me. It's not like it's totally empty. Every so often I pass a room, a lab, or an office that is lit up and someone seems to be working late.

I pass a sign that lists out floors and purposes, sort of like a doctor's office.

HOSPITAL WING

MEDICAL EXAMINER

LABS

Okay, I'm not going to that floor, then.

I go to another apex of the halls, these are a little more spacious, more shiny and marble-floors than the carpet-and-lamp feeling of the apartments. There's another sign.

OFFICES

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

I immediately take this exit.

Eventually I really do feel like I'm in an office. There's rooms for running operations, with huge screens and all kinds of electronic equipment that would take forever to name - mostly I notice the security feeds, the consoles waiting for experienced hands to sit down and point the cameras elsewhere to look for something.

There's a computer lab, and some sort of conference room. Then there's multiple offices in a row, big ones, with panel blinds covering some of the glass doors.

It's too early for the work day to begin, but I bet this place feels pretty awesome in full swing. Especially with how names I am used to seeing in headlines - famous names - appear in nameplates instead.

The biggest office at the far end - Steve Rogers. Second biggest, Tony Stark. Although I did see, about a floor and three signs ago, that Tony Stark has an entire floor near the top of the building as a personal office. So it's not like he's putting himself on the second tier here.

I shake my head and move away from it, circling back and looking at the plates down the other side. If I start thinking about the emptiness of the offices… and why one of them in particular will be empty for a long time…

Shield Interim

Lt. Rhodes

Dr. Banner

There's one that has a piece of duct tape over the nameplate, and written in sharpie, the words _totally not a male prostitute._ There's a post-it note underneath that says _call this number for a good time xxxx_ followed by a phone number.

Definitely Wade Wilson.

The next office I look into has James Barnes on the nameplate. Bucky, I guess.

I'm weirded out by the fact that Captain America never mentioned him to me. Never once brought up that his old army buddy had also come back to life, just like him. What was his story, I wonder? Was it as crazy as being stuck in the ice for seventy years? Did he crawl out of some time vortex thing? Was he brought back to life by some sort of energy zap from Scarlet Witch? Lightning from Thor?

I've seen his picture in school. In my history book. On the chapter called _Captain America: The dawn of superheroes in the United States._ We had a test question where we had to name the members of the Howling Commandos. Our principal was related to one of them somehow, so that was an easy one to remember. Bucky Barnes was the easiest of all, since he was Captain America's best friend. Everyone knows they sacrificed their lives on that plane together.

Why did he call me from Captain America's phone not long after he died, and then tell me that I could only communicate with him through a different phone number?

Why didn't he just hand everything over to Deadpool?

Where the hell is Wade Wilson, anyway? I honestly thought he cared about me a _little_ bit. At least enough to reach out to me, maybe come up with a secondary plan after Captain America died. I feel like you don't earn the nickname Sugarbear, as unfortunate as it is, without some reason.

I wonder if Tony Stark's team taking out the Vulture _was_ his secondary plan. Maybe he was conducting the whole rescue from the comlinks and I didn't know it.

But that doesn't explain why Bucky called me on Steve's phone. He seemed like a loyal enough friend to Steve, but what was his interest in me?

" _I bet if that spangled Captain of yours ate a bullet, you'd pick a side real fast."_

The words come back to me so fast it's like someone punched me in the stomach.

Vulture had said that to the informant. The masked man I fought in the construction lot. The night Captain American thought I disengaged after following Mason for awhile.

 _That spangled Captain of yours._

 _Yours._

Implying the friendship, the proximity.

Someone who would be Captain America's best friend…

Bits and pieces of their conversation comes back to me. For all intents and purposes, I could tell that his presence was fairly new… Vulture had mentioned his place among the Avengers while he scoffed and bullied.

I see out the windows that the sky is beginning to lighten, gray clouds instead of black and purple. Sunrise won't be for another hour or two.

Just because Bucky passed along the information to the Avengers and saved my ass tonight doesn't necessarily mean he _isn't_ the mole. One good deed doesn't erase another directive - it just makes it easier to hide.

What if…

What if…

If Bucky is who I think he is…

I open his office door, turn on the light.

There's paperwork in unlabeled folders, a half-empty coffee thermos.

I have to be wrong, I tell myself. I HAVE to be…

I walk around the edge of the desk and sit in his chair. If anyone caught me like this, they would think _I_ was the one who turned against them, and am now looking for intel to send back to whomever is left of Vulture's crew. It would look really, really bad for me. Snooping like this.

"Nancy Drew is on the case," I mutter, a little disheartened. Captain America's _best friend_ would never do something like this. The Bucky I read about in my history book would _never._

So maybe I just need proof he didn't and then I can get some real sleep.

I look at the black computer monitor, the folders. One contains designs for vibranium armor that absorbs impact, submitted by an intern from an email address in Wakandan that I can't read.

I brush these aside and open a drawer, it's got a highlighter and scotch tape. Oookay.

I try to open one drawer, but its locked. The expectation of it _not_ being locked takes me off guard, and already in the motion of opening, I jerk it towards me anyway, breaking the lock. Pieces of wood and metal groan and snap, and the drawer rolls open with an angry clatter towards my lap.

I feel my stomach bottom out, a heaviness settles over - like something out of a horror film. Panic claws and clutches up my throat, but I remain perfectly still.

Staring.

Just staring.

Sitting inside the otherwise empty drawer -

Mason's blue thumb drive, saran wrap around the end.

 _Move, Peter Parker,_ I remind myself. _You have to move._

I reach forward slowly and pick up the thumb drive.

Vulture handed it to Bucky Barnes that night.

I _fought_ James Buchanan Barnes in the construction lot. Tried to stop him. Failed. He brought this, _here,_ for what? Secretly researching Vulture's crew behind the Avenger's backs? Keeping all that intel a secret? Playing the Vulture to bring this intel _to_ the Avengers, to help them?

If that were the case, he wouldn't need to lock the drawer.

Was he trying to keep the Avengers fighting blind while looking for me? Not knowing it was me, necessarily, or Aaron Davis, but searching for us nevertheless. Searching for the _informant,_ in a general sense. So he could _out_ us.

I've been a phone call away from getting shot in the head by Adrian Toomes this whole time. And he didn't, either because Bucky never figured it out until I called him on the phone to tell him about the microprocessors, or he made an educated guess and decided - for whatever reason - not to give me away.

I managed to get through all of that criminal activity - even participating in it - _without_ getting shot in the head. Some aren't so lucky…

My heart gives a twinge of pain for Captain America. He shouldn't have gone like that...

I wonder if Bucky Barnes was involved in Steve's death.

 _I wonder._

My spider-senses erupt in a metallic shiver down my neck and arms.

I know the figure is at the door even before I hear him, smell him, or see him.

A darkness pouring from him in coiling layers like the dry-ice experiments we did in high school, only the sublimating fog is an invisible darkness. A shadow of confliction.

Bucky Barnes speaks in a low voice, fluttering with unspoken threats.

"You shouldn't be looking through my stuff."

…

* * *

 **Hail, Hydra -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

* * *

...

Peter Parker is holding the thumb drive in his hand and staring at me, his expression unreadable. He slowly walks out from behind the desk, and holds the thumb drive out. "Why do you have this?" he asks.

He already knows the answer.

"You shouldn't have come in here, Parker," I sigh. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingertips - a mannerism I picked up from hanging out with Tony Stark for too long, I think. I feel a headache coming - the headache that precedes denying the Winter Soldier the blood he is due.

But the headache is the least of my issues, it's only a hint. A hint that I compartmentalize and put deep within my chest where my beating heart used to be.

Without Steve, keeping me sane, grounded - it's just an empty cavity that can be filled with another volition. The agenda of Hydra. The bloodlust of the Winter Soldier.

He claws his way out and I am too weak to stop him any longer.

I feel like I'm waking up from a pleasant dream, faced with my true reality once more.

I am going to kill this child.

"Just tell me why," Peter holds out the thumb drive again. Like he expects me to take it, to explain, say it was recovered and used as part of the investigation.

That he is mistaken about what he thinks of me now.

"Why?" I repeat. "Because it was my _job."_

He puts the thumb drive in the pocket of his sweatshirt. "Which part?"

"Feeding intel to the Vulture, doing him favors when needed," I reply stiffly. "Taking my orders from Hydra."

"What were those orders?" Peter asks quietly. He's afraid I will say I killed Steve.

Even with the Winter Soldier staring back at him with my eyes, speaking his truth with my tongue, I would have never hurt Steve. I would die before…

"Finding _you_ ," I say. "Keeping the Avengers running the wrong direction. Interrupting other missions. Helping the Vulture set up other mercenaries in the field - Vanchat, Klaue - helping him rise to the top." I begin to plead. "I only gave them what they needed to know. You don't know what it's like."

This is a confessional.

Shut up, _James._ Let the grown ups talk.

Peter's face grows hurt, and angry, too. "I know _exactly_ what that's like."

"Need I say more?" I ask angrily. "What difference does it make now?"

"What _difference?"_ Parker repeats. There was a line crossed here. "It _always_ makes a difference. You've been keeping the Avengers in the dark this whole time. Making it harder for them to… to _be_ heroes. How could you do that to your best friend?"

I roll my eyes. "I have no friends."

"What about Steve Rogers…?"

"You call him my friend?" I ask. "I call him weakness."

Peter Parker tilts his head, and his eyes grow wide. "Who am I talking to right now?" he asks softly.

"James Barnes," I say with certainty.

Peter pauses, and whispers, "Bucky."

I keep my expression neutral.

"Bucky," Peter repeats. "You said your friends called you Bucky. _I_ could call you Bucky."

My face a mask, I stare him down. He can play tricks with me all he likes, but it won't stop the inevitable; he'll die tonight.

"Bucky would never call Steve Rogers _weak._ I've studied my history."

"I've seen you in combat," I say carefully. "This fight will probably last some time. We're both of equal strength and power. But it won't be long before my age and experience will tire you, and I gain the upper hand, and I kill you."

Peter seems to brace himself, clenching both fists.

"There is an alternative," I say thoughtfully, a last minute addition. "I could deliver you to Hydra - spare your life, if you agree to come with me - quietly - to the quinjet landing floor. We would leave - now."

"You're improvising," Peter says firmly. Too loudly. "You don't want to kill me, Bucky. I know you don't. Whatever has happened to you - whatever Hydra is making you do - I can tell you don't want to."

"Step outside, Parker," I say, jerking my head over my shoulder. I turn and march out into the hall and wait.

He tentatively follows me out.

"The quinjet," I say firmly. "Will you follow me? Or must I kill you here?"

Peter replies, "Bucky won't kill me. He'd have enough self preservation to try and trick me somehow. Maybe let me escape."

"Escape," I scoff.

"Right, with the thumb drive, to show it to Mr. Stark," Peter says in a rush. "Like this!"

He spins on heel, tearing down the hall at tremendous speed and disappearing around the corner before I even have a chance to register that I am chasing after him, feet pounding into the carpet, my lungs leaping into my throat.

My heart pumps in rhythm. _Catch him. Catch him. Catch him._

I spy his fleeing figure. He's trying to get to the elevator. Maybe go to that lab of Stark's and find that prototype suit.

Maybe he wants to go downstairs and greet the rest of the Avengers when they get here. He doesn't know I beat them back, slipped away before they called it a night, post clean up and searching for the rest of Vulture's crew in all the places Parker had told Rogers they had hung out in. Maybe he expects them all to be waiting downstairs already.

My legs are longer, and I know the building. For every breath of a second that he considers where to turn ahead, I gain on him. Finally I am reaching forward and -

He senses I'm about to grab the back of his hood, letting his body drop to the floor as suddenly as if he lost consciousness. I have to sidestep him in order to avoid tripping on him, kicking off the wall and twisting to land in front of him, facing him. I reach for him and he slides out from under me, standing back up and pushing his heel back in the ground to brace himself, fist driving forward to punch me in the face.

I hit him in the elbow to break up the force, using my other hand to push his head into the wall. The drywall crumbles, and he jerks backwards, literally walks up the wall with his feet, and then flips over my head, which breaks my hold. I kick back, catching him square in the ribs, and then roundhouse kick to knock him off his feet.

He lands, skids backwards, and then kicks his legs out in front of him to jump into a standing position once more. He's just as spry as he was the night at the construction lot, but -

But…

He drives for my middle with both fists, trying to get me to retreat, step backwards, lose ground. I don't react they way he wants. I dive, avoid, sidestep, evasion until I get my heel just around his ankle, trip him up, drive one fist brutally hard into his abdomen, and then the other to get one hand firmly grasped around his neck.

Then I squeeze, and lift.

He struggles to breathe, eyes widening with panic when he realizes the full capacity of my strength to lift him in the air with ease. He pulls a rookie move, grasping at my wrist and hand to try and ease the pressure. There's no use going for that. I will strangle him.

He figures it out soon enough, maybe quicker than I thought he would. Instead of trying to save his own windpipe, he goes for my elbow, punching me hard right in the funny bone - twice, and using his other hand to reach forward and jab me right in the throat.

I let go of him for a millisecond, and it's enough time for him to break away, turning on heel and trying to rush down the hall once more.

"HEY! MR. STARK! ANYONE!" Peter calls out into the fairly empty building.

There's no one on this floor right now.

There's no one looking at the security feeds that I cut when I realized there was an intruder in my office.

He takes another turn, going out of an inner-hall into one that runs alongside the edge of the building, too many stories up, with ceiling to floor glass windows lining the marble-patterned floor, and a row of three elevators on the inside wall.

The view outside the windows are black and glittering, as if a thousand eyes turned towards us, staring at the hall lit up from the inside with a sickly blue fluorescence. If anyone looks out their window right now in the building across the street, they would get an interesting floor show.

Peter hits one of the elevator buttons, and then turns towards me, fear and blood both on his face. The elevator numbers begin to track up, painfully listing floor by floor as it ascends towards us. He backs up a little, tripping on his own feet, and holds his hands out plaintively.

"Listen," he says hoarsely. "I know - I know - Bucky - Captain America's best friend - wouldn't do - whatever it is - you want to do. Kill me, capture me, take me to Hydra - I don't care. That's not you, _Bucky."_

I taste blood in my own mouth, and I smile. "Bucky's not home right now."

I fly at him again, catching his fist in one hand, twisting his arm backwards till it nearly snaps. He cries out and twists out of my hold, ducking and weaving and evading, nearly mirroring my exact movements from before.

He's not just fighting me.

He's learning from me.

I throw both hands down on his shoulders, shove downward, causing him to try to duck out of the pressure. I use him as a launch pad to brace myself and bring my knee high and into his chin, cracking his skull backwards. He falls out of my hold, crashing onto the floor, hitting it hard with one shoulder. He kicks me in the shin, double kick in the side of my knee.

This knocks me down too. I nearly fall right beside him, but I catch my elbow in the floor and push myself over his body, bracing one hand against his throat again, pushing my other hand to hold his wrist to the floor, a knee in his groin and the other pushing into the floor. I've got him entirely pinned in the most painful way possible.

He struggles against every part, trying to wriggle out of my hold, using his free hand to try and reach for my face.

I'm too high up, so he knees me in the back, and tries to punch me in the ribs. Barely any luck there, either. He gasps thickly, a painful sound rattling inside his throat, behind the adam's apple I can feel crunching beneath my palm, slowly crushing his ability to breathe.

I've hurt something - bruised his neck, maybe, broke a collarbone, I'm not sure. Something's wrong. He can't breathe.

Why can't he breathe?

He's hurt.

And I'm the one hurting him.

"Jesus Christ," I fall sideways off of him in surprise. "Parker," I choke out. "Jesus. Parker. I'm - I'm - what…"

I hear a ding, and the elevator doors open behind me.

Peter takes huge, gaping breaths, the air squealing through and coming back out in horrible heaving sounds.

I've hurt him badly.

What will happen when Tony finds out?

Peter coughs raggedly, his eyes streaming with tears. He looks up at me searching my gaze. "Bucky?" he asks, his voice sounds like its coming through a hole in his chest, not his mouth.

I've weakened him.

He's weak now.

Easier to finish him off.

Like the click of an empty chamber pointed right at my head in a game of Russian roulette, I'm calculating how to end him, how to make him stop.

I'll get him upstairs and throw him off the building, make it look like a suicide - the pressures of being undercover with the criminals was too much - Rogers and Stark should have gotten him to a mental health evaluation earlier - Stark will blame himself, look to me to take the reigns of leadership while he recovers from his grief…

Peter Parker leaps horizontally across the floor, fully body slamming me, and knocking me into the elevator. I fall in and hit my head, hard, on the handle dissecting the walls, and slide down.

Then he scrambles like a wet cat to hit the emergency button to shut the doors. Then he hits the fire alarm, and every other alert button he can think of before I'm clawing at him, clutching him from behind, lifting him and slamming him down into the floor again like a very cramped pro wrestling match. He hits the floor hard, cries out, and tries to shimmy away.

I'm shocked at the speed he moves, even after nearly giving him brain damage by asphyxiation. He practically scrambles backwards, crab-walking up the wall, just out of reach, leaving me to stumble to my feet, my own headache _screaming_ at me, turning my vision into black spots.

Then he has the high ground, dropping down on my shoulders, wrapping both legs around my waist like a backpack. One arm snakes around my neck, squeezing, the other hooking through my arm to keep me from reach behind me and hitting him. The other is pinned behind my back.

I stumble back and try to hit him into the wall. I bash backwards over, and over, and he nearly loses his grip. One leg drops to the floor and he pushes off, keeping a firm hold.

"Stop - fighting - me!" Parker exclaims, his voice sounding like week three of laryngitis. "I'm taking you in."

"Fuck you," I growl. "This fight's just beginning."

"It began like, three or five minutes ago, actually," he responds.

"Stop TALKING," I groan. "Dead people don't talk."

"Not dead yet!" he sounds way too cheerful for a guy stuck in an elevator with an assassin who has killed more difficult enhanced beings than this. This is, maybe, one of the few times it's actually taken more physical effort on my part, but it's merely a delay. The job will still get done. And he'll be dead.

The fire alarm blares uncomfortably, a white light flashing overhead.

"What if you kill yourself," I say nastily. "Throw yourself off the building tonight. James Barnes goes free. He walks. No one ever knows about this."

"I'm taking you to the Avengers," Parker replies. "We'll fix you."

"Fuck you," I snarl. "Give me a fighting chance, why don't you? You little _shit."_

"You're confused. You don't know who you are."

"I'm your goddamn executioner, that's who, you rat fuck."

"You'll go back to the way you were, when you were a friend and a hero. We'll save you."

For a moment, Barnes bleeds through.

"You can't fix me," I say hoarsely, tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes. "I'm programmed. You have to kill me. Listen - Peter," I repeat this, urgently, desperately, painfully. "It's the only way to save yourself. Save everyone. Stop pulling your punches. _Just fucking kill me. You have to do it._ Steve never could, you know? Even if he had known. He'd never be able to do the hard thing. You have to kill me."

"I am killing you," Peter promises the Winter Soldier. "Whoever _you_ are. And then Bucky can tell us what really happened. Because _he's_ a friend."

The elevator doors slide open, and there's a metallic _POP,_ right in front of us, and the acrid smell of hot gunfire.

We're staring into the cylindrical silencer on the barrel of a 5.56 mm rifle.

Brock Rumlow slowly lifts his head from behind the sight at the top of the gun, wearing an expression of grim surprise.

Then I feel the arm around my neck loosen, Peter Parker growing heavy behind me. I feel his weight deaden, his forehead falling into my shoulder like a kid falling asleep.

I step forward and let Peter Parker fall to the floor, first to his knees, and then on his face, hands crooked beneath him. There's a small hole in his forehead, and in the back of his skull, a mess that I can barely look at - like a broken jar of preserves. The elevator wall behind us is sprayed with blood and brain. The doors try to shut, bump into Parker's shoulders, and then roll back in. He doesn't move.

He's dead. Shot right through the head.

"Shit," I whisper. I grab his arms and start to drag him out fully, but Rumlow puts out a hand to stop me, and hits a button to hold the doors open for a time.

"Boss sent me to pull you," he says.

The fire alarm stops beeping, but the lights overhead continue to flash. A strobe light, like lightning, threatening another migraine, stabbing my eyes.

"Fury? Here?" I ask, confused, my lips thick, tongue sticking. It's both panic, and coming out of the Winter Soldier's mindset like coming down from a bad acid trip.

"Not that boss," Rumlow says. " _Our_ boss. Pierce. I'm with you." He tugs on my shoulder, pulling me away from the mess that is left of Peter Parker.

I can't believe he's dead.

It was instant - he would not have felt anything.

No pain.

But he's gone, shot by Brock Rumlow, of all people.

Unenhanced, an Agent of Shield, and fucking annoying, too.

And Rumlow works for _Pierce._ Not just with Shield. _Hydra._

"You're with Pierce?" I say doubtfully, kneeling beside Peter's body. I feel for a pulse in his neck, eyes focused on the blood, the matted hair. Nothing. "If you're Hydra, and you get in and out easily enough, why bother placing me? Answer me that."

Rumlow laughs. "Pierce tried to place me in with the Avengers time and time again. They fucking hate me. They think I'm annoying as shit - a tiny dog that yaps at their heels. I couldn't get in, not really, and I couldn't stay. They loaned me out for firepower if needed. But you - you had history. Pierce needed someone _truly_ one of them. That's you."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was safer for you not to know. Fuck, I'm basically your handler. I was just around - to - help out, if you needed to get out. Your back up. Hail Hydra," Rumlow says, his mouth tight with pride, but he doesn't smile. His dark eyes filled with a hatred he usually hides away - contains with training. Just like me. "Pierce sent me to get you out. Times up. Time to come home to Shield."

"We… we may have to shoot our way out," I say grimly. Standing up. Every ounce of my training solidifying into the stalwart, unshakeable Hydra agent. For the benefit of Brock Rumlow - Crossbones. A code name befitting him now more than ever. That skull emblem that he wears sometimes on his bullet-proof vest ought to have a few more tentacles on it. "There's no way we can play this off like an accident. I was hoping to get him upstairs - throw him off the building."

"Like they did to Rogers?" he asks cattily. "Did _the boss_ ever tell you who his super secret assassin was?"

"No," I say shortly.

"Pft. Me either. Lucky bastard," Rumlow tugs another small handgun from his belt, hands it to me. "That's all I can spare. We'll call for an evac? We can land a chopper on this roof, I'm sure. I won't shit you, I have my doubts about us getting out of here alive if we try to use this god-damn door," he points to our right, down the hall for the last door at the end. That way could lie our escape, to the hangar. "I know for a fact your groundskeeping A-Team is rolling in right now in the garage. Clint and the Witch and such. Don't know where the G.I. Joes are currently."

"If we are going to call for an evac, we'll do it upstairs," I say hurriedly. "We won't use the hangar and we won't steal a car. If you think Pierce will give us the time of day. Chopper would be best, if you think he will."

"Of course he fucking will. He sent me here tonight to make sure I got _you_ out - they reported the Vulture was taken down and he decided it was too dangerous to leave his best guy here any longer than necessary. Mission _Befriend the Dumbasses_ is over, Soldier. You know Pierce will put you back on warmongering after this?"

Rumlow kneels down, turns Parker over, checks his pockets. "Back in the field. Probably Europe to start with…" He withdraws the thumb drive, puts it in his own pocket. With the force of muscle memory, and he closes Peter's wide, innocent eyes. Now, he looks like he could be sleeping, if it weren't for the gore. "We're going to be partners. Our work here is done, we can fin…"

I level his own handgun at the back of his skull and squeeze the trigger.

The shot goes off loud in the hall.

Shuddering the glass of the windows, ringing in my ears.

It sends Rumlow straight to the floor in a crumpled heap, blood sprayed on the elevator doors, falling beside Parker.

Two bodies covered with blood with gunshot wounds to the head, and I'm standing here with a smoking gun in the most literal sense.

I didn't want to be partners with Rumlow.

I am angry with him for killing Peter Parker.

I was in the middle of coming _out_ of the Winter Soldier mentality. I was doing exactly what Peter believed I could do - I was beating my programming, wasn't I? I wasn't fighting him, I could hear Bucky's voice begging to be killed in order to save lives. That's _me._ That's me fighting through. That was me waking up.

And I just watched another Hydra agent shoot a child in the head. You bet I was going to fucking take him out the second he handed me a loaded weapon.

"Hail Hydra," I reply sarcastically.

"Son of a bitch," says Sam Wilson's voice.

I turn slowly, looking at Sam where he stands at the far end of the hall, emerging from the atrium entrance before the mid-level hangar.

"Sam," I say calmly, turning my body, my gun now pointed towards his general direction. "Let me explain."

"Son of a _bitch,"_ Sam repeats. "I don't fucking believe it. I mean, knew there was something wrong wich'you from the beginning. They were right. God damnit."

He takes a step towards me, looks at the gun, and stops. "Did you off Steve too, huh? HUH? Now the kid we just fucking got _out?_ And _Brock fucking Rumlow_?" His eyes flick over to the elevator again, eyes are deep with inexplicable anger, rage pooling from him like a busted water pipe. "Fuck you. That's a fucking _kid. A kid."_

"I didn't kill him," I say calmly. "Rumlow is Hydra. He's been working for Hydra this whole time. He shot the kid in the head when we were stepping out of the elevator - then we fought, and I shot him."

Sam pauses. He knows my bullshitting, but for the first time, he doubts this. He knows I am telling the truth - not the whole truth, but that part of it is true, anyway.

He shuts his eyes, as if trying to recall short term memory, clearing the cobwebs.

"I heard you say it," he whispers hoarsely. "I heard you say it, man. _I heard you."_

I shake my head _no_. "I was mocking Rumlow. Should have said _Farewell, Hydra._ You heard me out of context."

"No, no no no," Sam shakes his head again, and again. As if it takes a physical force to keep my words from taking root in his mind. "You're a slimy fucking bastard, you know that? I heard you and Rumlow chatting when I was coming up the stairwell. I couldn't hear what you said, but you certainly weren't fighting. Just two bros chilling the fuck out after you - what - both of you conspire to kill the kid? The kid that probably had all that intel from the Vulture? Did you think if you took him out tonight you'd be safe? Hell to the NO..." Sam is trembling so hard with anger, he looks as if he's got his own Hulk tucked away about to be unleashed. "I got you," he whispers. " _I caught you, I fucking caught you."_ His lip curls. "Bastard."

"Fine," I say. I'm going to squeeze the trigger.

"Barnes," says Nat's voice. "Put the gun down."

From the other side of the hall, behind me.

Natasha.

Her voice fills me with something I haven't felt in a long time. Love.

And deep, bone quiveling _horror_ that I will never have hers.

Not now.

…

* * *

...

* * *

Dear readers,

You're all going to be very upset with me after this chapter and I do understand but I need you guys to just remember every easter egg I've had since the beginning where I express it's all going to be OK. Reminder: I CHANGE THE ENDING OF THE MOVIE. I know you're going to be upset any way but if you just trust me, keep reading, I swear I won't let you down. I promised you a happy ending and you're gonna get one.

Love, Pip

* * *

 **Reader Replies**

EleanorGardner - omg you are so sweet for reviewing more than once like that! (hugs) Thanks for reading as always. AND IM SORRY IT'LL BE OK IN THE END

Tightpants182 - Oh my goodness what a compliment! fight scenes are SO HARD FOR ME. I am all about dialogue, so trying to choreograph a legit fight is the worst thing for me. Crystal is so good at it that I am trying to learn from her as best I can. But yeah, I avoid writing the fights at all cost lol. But sometimes they have to happen anyway... (AGAIN... SORRY...)

Sakura-Fiction - you are AWESOME. thank you so much for your encouraging words! You are the best! ALSO PLEASE DONT BE MAD KEEP READING I SWEAR IT'LL BE OK

LoonyLovegood1981 - Thank you for your wonderful reviews as always! You will definitely find out a lot of interesting things about Bucky in the next chapter... stay tuned, and thank you, and SORRY

Starnight5 - MY APOLOGIES AND THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR WONDERFUL REVIEWS

DaWriter06 - THANK YOU

cargumentluv - Thank you for noting the "no capes!" haha I definitely added that joke a little bit later during the editing stage and just felt like it is something they'd give Vision a bad time about. Thanks so much for your consistent reviews! ALSO IM SORRY. PLEASE COME BACK FOR MORE

* * *

 **NEXT - the fallout begins.**


	24. Ghost Pains

…

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Ghost Pain**

...

* * *

 **Widows - Natasha Romanoff**

* * *

...

I wanted to put this off until after my trip.

And now, I realize all too late, I shouldn't have waited.

That's on me. All of this is.

"Nat," Bucky says, looking at me over his shoulder. His voice - his eyes - are full of pain. True pain. I don't doubt his feelings for me were - are - real. But his goodness - the loyalty that I believed was there - that was wrong. _I_ was wrong about him, in a way I could hardly even fathom now - because it was so much worse than I was suspecting.

I thought maybe he was in trouble. Convinced myself everything would be okay when I left for short trip, that I could delay the inevitable. The discovery of what he was hiding, the fakeness of the break up. Some foolish part of my brain was still hoping maybe he had a gambling addiction or was a flaming alcoholic, not a mole for Hydra.

"Steve?" I ask slowly, the words drawn out of me like torture. "Did you kill him too?"

"No - no - no," Bucky says in a panic. Blood on his hands, still dripping. "I didn't…"

That dead kid in the elevator is my fault. Whoever it is. Whoever he _was._

I should have tried to solve the mystery of Bucky Barnes before now and delayed my trip… But it was about Bruce, I couldn't have _delayed_ that trip - not if Bruce and I would be able to… I could have canceled, but if I did, Bruce and I may never have a chance at what we want.

But I was able to get what I needed, except by the time I finished, Tony Stark was calling me to tell me Steve had died.

"That's bullshit," says Sam, taking more steps towards Bucky. "But the gun down and _then_ we'll talk about Steve."

Bucky doesn't raise or lower his gun.

 _I've ruined everything._

 _I should have confronted Barnes before I left and threw him in a god damn cell. Maybe it'd be easier to explain that I love him because he's a friend I've molded out of my mission, and nothing more, when he's on the other side of the Hulk-proof laser-protected glass._

"Sam," I say warningly, a hand out. "Put the gun down, Barnes."

"I can't," he says.

"Put it down!" Sam repeats angrily.

"I, CAN'T," Bucky snarls angrily. "I, I can't - I can't - b-b-because…"

Suddenly he does something so strange that it takes a moment for the horror to set in. When it does, it trickles, like a slowly opening wound. I feel my pulse accelerate.

Bucky bites down on his own tongue, so hard and fast, that blood splashes at the corners of his mouth, turning his gums and teeth deep red.

"What the fuck," Sam says.

"We're not _allowed_ to say anything," Bucky says thickly, his tongue swelling, speaking with a ravaging, hoarse voice now.

I see Sam's hand flex invisibly, about to hit the button on his belt for his wings to unfold from his back.

"Barnes," I repeat, louder. "Barnes, look at me."

He does, unwillingly, his head twisting around like he's trying to rid his ears from a ringing he can't quite place.

"Who's your friend?" I ask calmly.

"Don't patronize us," he says.

I lift my chin, my eyes flicking towards Sam.

Barnes realizes what's happening, squeezes the trigger.

 _BOOM!_

The bullet deflects from the wing span that bursts, and curls, forming a brief shield in front of Sam's torso. I hear the _ping_ as it buries itself in the elevator wall.

I shoot Barnes. Changing my initial aim by a fraction at the last second.

 _I can't kill him. We don't know the whole story yet._

It catches him in the shoulder, tearing through the jacket, sailing past him into the wall. He cries out in shock and pain, and the force of the shot twists him around, nearly knocking him flat.

I squeeze off another round, clipping him in the exact same shoulder, maybe a half inch from the first wound. This bullet lodges inside.

He lets out a shout of anguish, stumbling back, slamming his back into the wall. The gun in his other hand pointed at the floor now.

"I don't want to kill you, Barnes," I say, advancing, one eye trained on that gun.

Bucky straightens suddenly, eyes on fire, pointing the gun at me.

I dive sideways, avoiding the heart-pounding _zing_ of a bullet going past me, and into the glass window behind me. They're mostly bullet proof, so it lodges, sending an instant spider-web of cracks out like a transparent firework in the panel.

Sam tackles Barnes from the side, grappling his wrist of the gun hand, bashing it against the edge of the elevator door to try and get him to let go. Bucky fights him, hard, letting out a roar that sounds inhuman. I know I could do it - I could shoot him again, my conscience would be clear, but - Sam's in the way, now. I can't risk hitting him.

"Shit," I tuck the gun back into my holster and rush at Barnes, twisting up and under his arm in a way that catches him off guard, effectively slamming my hand into each and every nerve that I can, giving him a dead-arm.

He finally lets go of the gun, and it clatters to the floor heavily. He doesn't stop fighting, all limbs, twists, evading our hold like a ghost.

Sam's left wing curves around, the point of the furthest metal feather driving into Bucky's wrist. It pierces his arm straight through - the same shot arm - and pins it to the wall, like a crucifix. Bucky cries out, and then I punch him hard in the jaw.

He starts to go limp, but his free hand punches me in the ribs, hard, three times consecutively, maybe busting one, maybe two of them. I try to catch his fist and push it away.

I look into his eyes and he looks into mine.

It's not Barnes. There's something else in there, something deadly and void of any emotion.

Suddenly, a small, dark gray disc comes flying through the air like a toy frisbee. It latches onto his wrist, unfolds, and turns into a band that covers his entire arm.

Then another disc whips around the corner ahead, singing through the air, clamping around his neck. This, too, unfolds, turning into some sort of collar.

He lets go.

Sam grabs me and leaps back, withdrawing his wings. The piercing feather makes a horrible sound when it wrenches out of Bucky's wrist, unpinning him from the wall.

Bucky falls with a shout to his hands and knees.

More discs fly through the air like a sideways hailstorm, latching onto his elbows, knees, the injured shoulder, his thighs, shoes, hands. They unfold and click and whir like little robots, encasing Bucky slowly in sheets of stone-gray metal.

Until Bucky looks almost as if he's wearing one of Stark's original designs, the first mark suit, something out of an old comic book.

Before me, there's a stone-gray suit, kneeling in the floor, breathing hard.

Bucky's face looks up inside of it, eyes meeting mine.

The murderous hatred that was there a second ago fades away, like smoke.

The love and terror both are back.

"I'm so sorry, Nat," he whispers, a sob in his throat.

Then the helmet curls up and over the skull, slams shut over his face with the colossal, metallic _bang_ like prison-bar doors. The arms press to the sides, the legs straighten, and the robotic suit elongates into a strange, almost coffin shape. There's still a slight hint of the man's shape in the metal box now sitting on the hall floor.

"What the fuck is that thing?" Sam asks, staring down at it, eyes wide. "S'it supposed to get delivered to Jabba the Hutt now?"

I brace myself on his arm. "Shit."

"You hurt?"

"Ribs." I say shortly. "But that's… not why I said _shit."_

"I gotchyou." Sam lets me put my weight on him.

We both just stare, leaning on each other. Processing. It feels like an hour, but it's half a second.

"I'm glad Steve isn't here to see his best friend turn on the Avengers like this," he says coldly. "It'd break his heart."

"Don't talk about Steve like he's dead yet," I reply, my breathing too short and hollow. "I can't hear that. Not yet."

He glances at me. "You. And him. That was… weird. What was that?"

"I've been trying to get into his head," I confess.

"And accomplish what now?" Sam helps me over to the wall. He starts punching emergency codes into one of the coms on the wall.

"My opp was to… find out what was _so wrong_ with him."

Sam pauses with a hand over the small touch pad. Glances at me, mouth pursed and one eyebrow way too high. "Steve didn't assign that one, did he?"

"Deadpool."

"What exactly did this opp entail?"

"Dating," I grimace.

Sam whistles and turns back to the touch pad. His hand pauses, and his shoulders slump. "Holy shit," he whispers. "Wade was right. He called it. And you," he gives me another look if disbelief. "You had the impossible task of trying to get an ice-cold sociopath like Barnes to _admit_ he's playing Captain America like a fiddle?"

"I know," I say, shifting away from him and leaning on the wall, biting back a groan of pain. " _I know._ In a perfect world, Barnes confesses he's some sort of monster's pawn, and I present my findings to Steve, we confront him together, and he quietly agrees to solitary until we figure out how to fix him."

"In a perfect world," Sam mutters, hitting the last call-out on the com a little too hard. "Bucky stayed in the ice, Steve didn't get shot, and that kid isn't lying over there in that fucking elevator." He turns away from the com bitterly. "The rest are on their way. Well, whoever is here, anyway."

He shrugs out of his jacket while he walks, struggling with it over the pack that contains his wings. He gets out of the wing-pack first, and for a moment, channels a clumsy routine I swear I've seen in a Will Smith film.

He drops the wing pack on the floor, kneels next to the kid in the elevator, and feels for a pulse. Just in case. Then he drops the jacket over the body, making sure that he covers the face.

"Who is that?" I ask softly. "Have I seen him before?"

"Parker," Sam replies shortly. "Peter Parker."

"That kid on the Vulture's crew?"

"Steve's informant," corrects Sam, standing, wiping his hands sporadically on his trousers. "Rogers put this guy on Vulture's crew to help track Hydra's movements, and then, get those microprocessors back."

"But he's just a kid."

"I've been thinking the same thing. S'far as I know, he's eighteen. I just met him tonight. I didn't even know he was a good guy till he..." he pauses. "He helped us get those microprocessors back. And saved Buck's ass, too."

I grimace. "And Rumlow?"

"Barnes said he shot the kid," Sam says. "So then he shot him."

"You believe him?" I ask. Both doubtful, but a shiver of hope crosses my heart.

"I think he was telling me a half-assed truth to save his own dumb-ass." Sam begrudgingly feels for a pulse on Rumlow's neck, too, but there's no point. With either of them. Not in this mess.

The doors open at both ends of the hall. Tony and Rhodes enter from the atrium in a rush, and Vision from the opposite side of the hall.

"What the hell happened?" demands Tony.

"Stark," Sam blocks his view of the elevator. "It's… it's not good news, man."

Vision kneels beside the bodies in the elevator. He doesn't lift the jacket, his face stoic.

"It's Barnes," I say.

"What's Barnes?" Tony asks.

I point at the gray-iron suit sitting in the middle of the floor, like a stone Egyptian coffin where they embellished the figure of the pharaoh on the lid.

"He's in there?" Tony repeats, flummoxed.

"Didn't you send your little robot frisbees to save our asses?" Sam asks with confusion. "I thought you knew we were in trouble."

"I sent them, but _robot-frisbees_ evaluated the scene on their own," Rhodes says.

"Back up," Tony holds out his hands, confused, "The _alarm_ went off and there was an _intruder_ alert in our offices, but the feed was cut - I couldn't get back right away, so Rhodey and I sent my Alexandre Dumas prototype in to - hopefully - take care of it."

"It worked," I say shortly.

"Tony, listen, man… there's something you need to know…" Sam says. "I heard Parker and Rumlow…"

"Peter Parker?" Tony asks confusedly. "He should be asleep right now. Vision," he marches past Sam and walks up to Vision. "Didn't I tell you to…"

Vision lifts the jacket, his synthezoid chest rising with a silent gasp of horror.

Tony makes an audible _auh_ sound, as if someone punched him hard in the stomach. He falls to his knees beside Vision, ripping the jacket the rest of the way off. "Jesus - Christ…" his mouth works as if chewing back and swallowing sobs. "Augh… _god."_ His hand feels for a pulse, uselessly. Starts to put a hand onto his skull, and comes to his senses at the last minute.

Tony pivots his body away for a moment, looking at the floor. He looks like he's dry heaving.

I kneel beside Vision for a moment. While it does nothing to help, I look at the kid's face. His mouths hangs a little slack, and there's dark purple bruises around his neck. Someone had tried to choke him to death - and if Sam's timeline is right - it wasn't Rumlow.

Rumlow may have pulled the trigger, but Barnes was certainly helping him.

"Dear god," Tony whispers, laying one palm flat on the floor to brace himself from falling over.

For a moment, the hall is silent.

I feel my stomach turn over, like I'm going to be sick too. But it's not like that. It's almost like what I imagine morning sickness would feel like. A little nausea, but with something else… fluttering in my stomach. But I don't feel _life,_ I feel a lack of it.

I _could_ feel that. If I wanted to.

Or I could do something else…

Maybe Bruce doesn't have to know.

"No," I whisper out loud, startling myself. I feel the small package pressing in my pocket - no bigger than packet of gum. But I suddenly feel weighed down, as if it's a packet of gum, and maybe the world, too.

Vision looks at me. He wants to ask _No what?_

But he doesn't. He only gives me a look of swift, understanding pain.

I look at Tony, then the kid. Back at Tony.

"I'm sorry, Stark," I say, but my voice sounds clean, even. Clinically removed.

I'm not removed at all. I'm suddenly become so damn involved that I think my heart might fall out of my chest. I have two trains of thought moving in opposite directions.

 _So the war begins,_ I think, sadly, and I tuck the inner debate away for later.

Vision reaches over and puts a hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm sorry..." he says.

"What the hell happened," Stark knock's Vision's hand off. "I sent you to - to - what happened between now and then? He was supposed to be downstairs!"

"I left him at the apartment," Vision says.

While calm, I can see hurt there. Self-blame.

Sam goes up to Tony, kneels beside him, drags the jacket back up and covering Peter's bloodied skull. "I came up the stairs, I heard Rumlow and Barnes talking. I heard only one shot, and Peter was already dead. Barnes admitted to shooting Rumlow, said that Rumlow shot Parker."

"I came in and Barnes was about to shoot Wilson," I fill in, gingerly getting to my feet, bracing myself on the wall in order to stand.

"We fought him till your nutcracker took him down the rest of the way," Sam says.

Tony holds up a hand. "I - I can't listen to this right now."

"Tony," Rhodes says.

"I know, I know," he manages. "I asked."

He sits back on his heels, clumsily, then slides off of them and sits heavily and fully on the floor. "Jesus Christ…" his hand twitches at the jacket, lifting it up, and then dropping it, looking at his palm as if his hand is to blame. Wiping his hand on his chest, a smear of blood on his gray shirt now.

"Nothing I can say will change this," Vision whispers, more to himself than to Tony. "I am sorry." He pauses, his face stricken. "I am."

"What do we do," Tony mumbles to himself. "What the hell do we do? Shit… he's just a kid… just a kid." He looks at Rhodes. "Anything?" he asks, but not sarcastically, like he normally would. A friend calling upon friend, a plea for help in the depths of a new grief. "Rhodey. Help me."

"Shit…" whispers Rhodes. "Let me think. Give me a moment."

I did not realize what this kid meant to anyone in this room. I know… knew... nothing about this kid. It was Steve's big secret.

A small part of my heart is glad I didn't know, because I would be feeling what Tony is feeling now. I would be wearing Vision's deeply pained, compassionate expression. Suppressing anger and grief in an unhealthy way, like so many of my teammates.

I don't want to feel any of this. I have enough of my own, right now.

"Shield is compromised," Rhodes says quietly. "You know it, we know it - we've all known it for quite some time."

"Shield?" Sam scoffs. "The _Avengers_ are compromised. Barnes has been here all along."

"So you're saying we _don't_ call this in right now?" Tony asks.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Rhodes sighs. "Not until we put all the pieces together."

"Who are you and what have you done with James Rhodes?" Tony asks. "You always follow the rules."

"Okay, you want my help?" Rhodes replies firmly, but kindly. "That's what I'm suggesting. We have to do _something_ about Barnes - but maybe we shouldn't be handing it over to the very agency whose agent he just _shot?"_

"Barnes wasn't himself," I say.

"Th' hell does that mean?" Tony asks.

"It means he looked like he was having a dissociative personality episode," Sam says.

"English?" Tony asks.

"Like Doc and Hulk," Sam repeats. "Multiple personalities switching back and forth."

My heart leaps in my chest. Two people dead in our completely secure facility, and Bruce unaccounted for. "Where is Bruce?" I ask.

"Downstairs," Rhodes answers, giving me a side-eye. "He's okay," he adds. "Just passed him. He was on our coms for this mission. He's giving Agent Ross a call now to orchestrate the rest of the clean up."

"I can't do this right now." Tony mutters. "I can't do this. This kid has an aunt that Steve hid away. I'll have to call her. I'll have to tell…" He's talking to himself, mostly. Only Vision is sitting with him, taking in every word. Being there for him.

The rest of us? Unfortunate, and true to our fashion. We're already strategizing while the bodies rot in place. Trying to solve the puzzle.

I wish Clint we here tonight to bring some much-needed gravity.

"There's a lot that goes into having multiple personalities like that," Sam adds. "So maybe one of those personalities is the one that killed Steve."

"There's too many suspects," sighs Rhodes. "It could have been anyone."

"Look at the line up," I say calmly. "Barnes. Rumlow. One is in a box and one is dead, both of which were there when Steve died…"

Tony pushes himself to his feet unsteadily.

"Grant Ward…" adds Sam.

"Grant _Ward?"_ I repeat. "John Garret's poster boy for Shield ops?"

"There is a lot to debrief," Vision says calmly, standing up. "Too much to discuss here. If I may, Stark?"

Tony barely gives him a little hand wave from the arms crossed over his chest, his chin pressed into his palm as if concealing a yawn. He's in complete shock, and shaking.

I should probably find him something hot to drink.

"Ordinarily I would caution against moving the bodies until we've called in professionals to evaluate the scene," Vision urges. "But I've examined and stored what information we need. We've come to the conclusion that Shield is compromised, and we don't want any further leaks to their agency. The UN can receive an official report in the morning, as always. Dr. Banner is already giving Ross the updates needed about the recovery of the microprocessors - let us simply leave it at that."

He waits for protests. There are none.

"Let's take Mr. Rumlow and Mr. Parker to the M.E.'s office to await their arrival," he continues, "Mr. Barnes should be delivered to the holding cell. We will reconvene there."

Tony turns towards him. "Will you call Wanda to handle Barnes, please? If he manages to bust out of my prototype, I want my most powerful people there. That's you and her."

"Certainly." Vision looks relieved. If Tony isn't benching him, then it's almost the same as forgiveness. Or as close to it as he'll get.

"You, uh, and Banner did fix that airtight issue, didn't you?" Rhodes asks. "He can still breathe in there, right?"

I feel my stomach drop. _No…_

"Yes," Tony says stiffly. "Though I almost wish I didn't."

"We can't kill him," I say quietly. "We have to at least question him first."

…

* * *

 **Undeserved - Tony Stark**

* * *

…

 _Peter Parker is dead._

 _The kid who should have never been a part of this mess in the first place._

I watch in numb disbelief when the bodies are loaded onto the gurneys.

I vaguely push one of the medical examiner's techies aside and push Parker's gurney myself, mumbling to the others that I need a minute. I'll meet them at the holding cell.

This kid should not have died.

I'm fucking angry. I am angry I didn't insist on accompanying him back to the Tower. Pissed off I didn't instruct Vision to guard him twenty-four-seven. I am angry at myself…

But mostly, I'm angry at Steve Rogers. Pepper would say that is a natural stage of grief. But it's not unwarranted anger. Grief is supposed to be angry at that injustice of their death, angry at the universe for taking them away. Angry at the person for dying too soon.

No, I am suffering from entirely justifiable anger, that would lead to a good fight, maybe even throwing a few punches, and one of us - Steve or me, maybe both - threaten to quit the Avengers. Maybe we do. Maybe we split into factions and fight over it.

He'd vouch for Bucky as always. I'd go the other way.

But I'd draw the line at sending that kid into the Vulture's clutches - he shouldn't have done it. There's a difference between his _generation_ and mine. He sees an eighteen year old as an adult, someone old enough to get drafted. Someone who can go to a secret war on the Avenger's behalf and be a hero in the trenches. Legal adult age.

Times have changed. I see that kid with a whole future ahead of him. A boy fresh out of high school is still a kid to me, he didn't even have a chance to try college.

He may have been Spider-Man, but the long-term talent for working in science with me would have lasted long after he hung up the suit. There were _possibilities_ there. He could have had a girlfriend. Taken care of his aunt when she got older. He could have had a life.

I don't think he should have been put in something so dangerous that could have denied him that -

No, it did. It did deny him. All of it.

That's a future robbed from him by a piss-poor decision from Rogers, and the only one holding him accountable for that was Deadpool. In a sense, I don't blame Deadpool like I do Steve. Steve _knew better._ Wade Wilson never knew better, never does and never will and I don't expect anything less from him.

But none of this should have happened.

He's just a kid. This is all undeserved. He shouldn't have been working for the Vulture. None of it.

That fucking resume should have been sent straight to me.

My anger for Steve Rogers is justifiable. Deserved. And will forever be unresolved. Someday the anger will be replaced by some imaginary conversation, where I visualize how the arguments would have gone. How _guilty_ he would have felt when the kid ended up dead, and especially when Barnes may be to blame.

He would have apologized, bottled up the guilt, turned it inwards. Maybe left the shield behind and grew a beard or some shit.

And in the end, none of that anger would make any of it better.

I've checked out mentally, physically, emotionally.

"Mr. Stark?" says a shy tone.

I flinch and look at the young girl next to me, one of our ME techs. Miraculously here at this hour, though I can't imagine what possessed her to work the hours she does.

Then I remember - Steve's already in there. Getting prepped for a funeral. That's why she's working overtime.

She gives me a pained expression behind large glasses. "I need to take him in where the temperature is cooler. Okay?"

I release my hold on the gurney as if the metal handle burnt my hands.

We're standing in the hallway outside the ME's office. I don't even remember using the elevator to get here.

"Thank you," she says kindly. She starts to push the gurney into the room, adjusting the sheet once more to make sure not one part of Peter is exposed. "I'm sorry," she says over her shoulder. "I called Kevin. He should be here in a few hours."

I look at her, feeling dazed. Emptied. "Who the hell is Kevin?"

"My… my manager?" she says confusedly. "Medical examiner and lead mortician. He was off today, but I called him and he'll be here soon. To… you know."

"Okay," I say shortly. _I don't want any details. I don't want to know what they have to do._

She shuts the door.

"Tony?" Rhodes asks.

"Jesus, you're here," I flinch again, and then press my forehead into my hand, leaning against the wall abruptly. "I didn't hear you."

Rhodes braces my shoulder with one hand, giving it a squeeze. "You okay?"

"I don't - I don't know what to do," I blurt, looking at him with bleary eyes and a wild, confused expression. "I've got two people dead and a guy we all dislike as primary suspect. What if he doesn't tell us what happened?"

"Don't do this. Not yet. We haven't spoken with him yet…"

"Did you have any trouble getting him out of the Alexandre?"

"Nothing happened. Wanda made sure everything went smoothly before she went back to bed, but she said she'll be on call if we need her. He's in the holding cell."

He turns and heads down the hall, knowing I'm right behind him.

Hopefully Barnes's time in the iron mask put him in a verbose mood.

The holding cell is Hulk-proof, visible by a single transparent wall, built to register the DNA of the person it contains. Only that DNA remains contained, and only certain parties (preprogrammed) can use thumbprints, facial recognition, and a pin to get in and out. It's set up sort of like an awkwardly dry aquarium. Once, when he thought he was about to turn, Banner locked himself in there as a preventative measure. He didn't, of course.

I let him out with some bribery.

Outside, cement floors, dark cinder block walls, a table and chairs set up for official personnel. There's a small console for controlling the cell, like the interior temperature and oxygen. Sometimes different kinds of prisoners need different conditions.

Not that we would know much from practice, anyway. We've contained a few rogue Hydra agents, in passing, taken captive on a mission in Germany and brought here, until they were collected by Shield. Now I question that, too…

Barnes sits inside the unit, in the single metal chair bolted to the floor next to the single metallic block that unfolds from the wall and makes for a very uncomfortable bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his neck bent and face hidden behind long hair. One hand presses gauze to bloody wounds in his shoulder. There's already a makeshift bandage, and a tourniquet, around his forearm. There's a nasty wound through his wrist.

I wonder who handed him the first aid material sometime between now and letting him out of the _Alexandre Dumas._ Probably Vision.

I would have let him bleed out.

Vision, Bruce Banner, Natasha, and Sam sit at the table, waiting for us.

"He say anything?" I ask instantly.

"We've got the wall up," Sam says. "He doesn't even know we're in here."

The containment unit has the capability to look like a solid wall from the prisoner's perspective on the inside, while being visible on our end, much like an interrogation mirror in an old precinct.

"Did you know these two were _together_?" Sam points at Bruce and Nat.

I realize they're holding hands, openly, interlocked fingers resting on the table.

"I figured it out," I say mildly.

"So everyone knew but me," Sam shoots a look of betrayal at Nat. I glance at Vision and Rhodes. They had all guessed on their own, it seemed. Neither of them were surprised.

"I thought we were tight," he adds.

Nat smiles faintly in Sam's direction. "Still are."

"Shit girl. You couldn't of told me?"

"I appreciate the whole - lighten the mood routine," Rhodes says tiredly. "It's what we do. But… we have to talk to him sooner rather than later. I expect when the sun rises, higher-ups are going to start wondering where our reports are." He trails off.

"The UN isn't exactly Mufasa," I mumble. "They can wait their turn."

"Who wants to take the lead on this?" Rhodes ignores me.

"Let me at him," Sam volunteers quickly. "I'll go full Denzel on him. You want Denzel?"

"You saw what I saw, Sam," Nat interjects. "Something wasn't right."

"Look, I _get_ that maybe Barnes was flipping a switch between the devil and the angel sitting on each shoulder," Sam answers hotly, "And that maybe it relates to some sort of brain trauma, because that's what _I've_ studied, but that doesn't mean I'm not fucking _pissed_ about it _."_

"Don't do the Denzel thing," Bruce sighs. "Maybe we do good cop first. Where's Clint?"

"Went home," I reply. "Wife and kids, remember?"

"Clint is a terrible choice," Rhodes says. "Unless we feel like watching a staring contest for two hours."

"Vision," Nat says. "It should be Vision."

We all get it. Vision is inherently kind. He's been neutral about Barnes from the start, and won't be going in with any preconceived assumptions.

Vision nods gracefully. "If you think I can be of help. I will speak to Mr. Barnes." He stands fluidly, and commences his weird glide across the small space to the console.

I get I am partially to blame - or thank - for his creation, but there's other parts that are entirely unplanned, and definitely mysteries in Vision that I will never full understand. He is a fully evolved, and yet still evolving, being. Evolving enough to make mistakes like a human. Like leaving Peter Parker unattended. Feeling guilt, shock, and grief at his death - and feeling remorse enough to apologize. Reacting like _me._

I blame him, and I blame myself, and I hate myself for both.

Vision presses a button on the console, and a green laser beam swipes across the window, signaling it is now visible from the other side, and unlocks the two-way audio. Barnes looks up suddenly, his face drawn and bruising. He straightens a little in his chair, but doesn't move much, trying not to withdraw the pressure to his shoulder. He's staring at Natasha and Banner, seeing nothing else.

Vision pulls up one of the chairs, and sits in his eyeline, forcing him to refocus.

"I am sorry you are injured," he says calmly. "We'll get you medical attention as soon as we've had a chance to discuss what happened this evening."

"I'll tell you everything that I can," Barnes says immediately. "Ask me anything you want. I swear to you, I will try to tell you whatever I have in my power to do so."

I raise my eyebrows. Rhodes and I glance at each other.

"Who are we talking to right now?" Vision asks.

"James Buchanan Barnes."

"And you prefer…"

"Bucky."

"Is there anyone else I should be concerned about?" Vision presses.

He doesn't respond, shaking his head.

"Is that a no?" Vision asks.

"I can't answer," Barnes replies hoarsely.

"Then it could be a yes," Vision says thoughtfully. "Who is it?"

"I can't say," Barnes answers. "I am prevented from saying so."

"What prevents you?"

He shakes his head again.

"Commands," Vision infers.

"More or less," Barnes struggles to reply, almost like he's allergic to the truth.

"Programming?" Vision tries. "Perhaps you are like me. Robotic? Synthesized?"

"I think you're getting colder," I mutter.

"Partly," Barnes responds.

"Seriously?" I ask. "You're a fucking robot?"

"No," Barnes says through gritted teeth.

"You are programmed, though," Vision continues. "How are you programmed?"

Barnes shrugs. "I don't know. I've never known."

"Mystic?" I ask. "Like staff of Loki kind of shit?"

"It's scientific," Bruce offers. "Isn't it?"

I glance at Bruce, and back and Barnes. "Well? Is it?"

"Experimentation results," Bruce whispers to Nat.

"We can all hear you, you know," I say brusquely. "Share with the class, why don't you?"

"Everyone who studied history knows the story," Bruce says. Natasha's knuckles are white between his. She's holding his hand like she's trying to break it. "Bucky Barnes was captured by Hydra and experimented on. Steve rescued him, and they died together on the plane to save the world. So. Obviously we found out only part of that was true." He looks over at Vision and Barnes, who is breathing too hard, too fast. "Maybe that wasn't the _only_ time Hydra experimented on you."

"You are referring to brainwashing," Vision says, turning back to Barnes. "Can you affirm that?"

Barnes nods slowly, winces. "Something like that."

"Who do you work for?" Vision asks.

"Steve Rogers," Barnes answers too fast.

"But you don't," Vision says gently. "It's still Hydra, isn't it? It's been Hydra all along."

Barnes lifts his chin back at the table. "Wilson heard it."

"He said _hail hydra_ ," Sam mutters through gritted teeth.

Barnes nods, wearing an expression of helplessness I've never seen before.

Vision sighs. "And not of your own volition?"

There's an overly large dramatic pause. Barnes seems to have difficulty answering this one, shaking his head like there is a ringing in his ears. "...No," he finally whispers. "Not… my… choice."

Natasha flinches.

"How long have you been under Hydra's control?" Vision says. "Since you came out of the ice?"

Barnes looks away. "I can't… say."

Vision tilts his head. "When did you actually come out of the ice? Last year? Presenting yourself to Shield as an enhanced individual who had been trapped and ready to work again?"

No answer. A dribble of blood appears at the corner of his mouth, winding its way with a scarlet stain down the stubble on his chin.

He's biting his tongue. Jesus.

"The only reason you can't answer that is because it was a lie you were programmed to say, wasn't it?" I ask. "Someone fed you that line. You didn't get de-iced recently, did you?"

"What if it was immediately after the plane went down?" Vision offers. "Perhaps the same enhancement that kept Steve Rogers alive _in_ the ice, kept you alive _out_ of it. Am I correct?"

"Hydra pulled me out and left Steve there to die," Barnes manages, and I can tell it takes a lot of effort for him to say so.

His teeth are stained red, like something out of a horror movie.

I stand up. "So you've been _alive_ and fucking around this planet since the goddamn forties?" I ask. "And then you just magically popped back into Shield and told them you were de-iced this year and they believed you?"

"Unless he just told a dumb story to the right person," Rhodes adds.

"Maybe it was Rumlow," Sam exclaims. "We all agree Shield is compromised by Hydra. There's no reason for them to _not_ believe him if they're the ones making up the goddamn story in the first place."

"So what have you been doing since the forties, huh?" I mock. "Hero for hire?"

Natasha gives me a startled expression. I rarely see her surprised, or even remotely scared, so some face that encompasses both immediately freaks me the hell out.

That means she has a new theory - a new suspicion - or maybe she just figured something out.

"What?" I say to her, a little too loudly.

Barnes focuses on her, as if she's the only one on the planet.

"WHAT?" I repeat.

"Nothing," Nat immediately puts the metaphorical mask back on.

"Don't you Black Widow me right now," I snap.

"Don't lose steam," she says coolly. "And I didn't say anything."

Vision gives us a look. "If I may continue."

I slump back down in my seat.

"I wish I could explain better," Barnes pauses, grimacing and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. That wrist must hurt a hell of a lot. _Good._

"I can't…but I can't say. Keep asking me questions." He looks at me, pleadingly. "Please. As many as it takes."

I give Rhodey another look. This is fucking weird.

"You're prevented from telling us what you do unless we can prompt easy answers," Vision surmises.

"Yes."

"Were you involved in the murder of Steve Rogers?"

"No - no no no," Barnes shouts vehemently.

"Did you know anything about it before it happened?"

"No."

"If you had known, would you have been able to tell us?"

"I would have stopped it."

"What if your programming kept you from stopping it?"

"I would have died in his place," Barnes says, his expression deadly. "I swear it. I swear."

 _I believe him…_

"Do you know who killed him?"

"I don't know for sure," Barnes replies. "I can only… suspect."

"Was it someone at the exchange this morning?"

"I think so."

"Grant Ward," I say, and I watch his eyes. They light up in a strange way. "Grant Ward," I repeat. "He's the only one there that could make a long distance shot like that."

Barnes nods slowly. "Next to me, he's the best sniper out there."

Natasha suddenly makes a strange sound at the back of her throat. Sort of a gasp swallowed too quickly. Bruce and I both give her a look, but she shakes her head.

"Unless you feel like sharing with the class," I say to her sternly, "Feel free to stop acting like you're listening to a football game in a pair of headphones."

"I'm listening to a football game in a pair of headphones," she replies, but her serene tone is the fakest I've heard in a long time. Of course she won't share what she just realized in her own inner-monologue. It's rare for her to have _outbursts_ of any kind, which means whatever it was, it was so mind blowing that even her best spy work couldn't keep her from reacting audibly.

There's an awkward silence. Bruce doesn't push her, so the rest of us feel like we can't either.

"I don't have much time," Barnes says suddenly. "Ask me more questions."

"What the hell does that mean?" I ask. "Do you turn back into a green ogre after sunset?"

"It _means,_ " Barnes says patiently, "I am struggling to stay awake right now. To keep… me… present. I'm fighting it. I can't always do it, but, self-preservation techniques _will_ start to kick in. I've been doing this for a long time."

"Your programming keeps you from telling us the truth directly, but you can admit to it," Vision says. "As long as we don't ask for specific information. Yes or no questions seem to be best. You can't be programmed _not_ to say yes or no - you'd never be able to blend in otherwise. Would I be correct in this?"

"Yes," Barnes agrees.

"Did you kill Peter Parker?" I ask, my voice giving out like a teenager. That kid - that kid should get to enjoy being a teenager. Now he'll enjoy nothing. Ever again.

"No," Barnes says. "But he tried to."

"He?" Vision asks. "Rumlow?"

Barnes shakes his head. "Not who I'm talking about."

"But Rumlow did kill him," Sam interjects. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"Then who is HE?" I demand. "Who else was TRYING?"

"There were bruises," Natasha offers quietly. "Before Parker was shot. He was fighting someone. Someone tried to choke him out."

I shudder. I don't want to think about that kid's last moments spent in fear - fighting for his life - probably scared to death at losing it.

"Fuck," I slam my fist down onto the table. "Just… stop talking about Peter Parker for a moment. Please."

The room falls silent.

Natasha takes the lead for a moment. She doesn't look at him. She doesn't stand. She stares at the surface of the table, presses a finger into the surface, using a fingernail to pick at an invisible speck.

"Can you admit that you were the one trying to kill Peter Parker?" she asks. "We've guessed as much already. If you can't say it. Maybe nod."

Barnes slowly brings up a pointer finger and jabs himself in the temple with it three times. Poke, poke, poke. Drops his hand like a dead thing in his lap. His eyes look glazed over.

"So the ogre in your head tried to kill Parker," I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to wrap my head around this. "But Rumlow was the one who succeeded."

Barnes sighs. "Yes."

"Were you working together, you and Rumlow?" Vision questions.

"I didn't know," he says slowly. "I guess, in a way."

"And who do you work for?" I ask. "Who is your _handler?"_

Barnes shakes his head. "Can't say."

"Oh, boy, more guessing games! This is fun!" Sam barks. "We've already established he can't really do more than a yes or no question, right?" he gives me an eyebrow. "Do you really think he's just going to blurt out a name for you, Stark? Come on."

"The ogre stuck in the head thing is a bit of a Hulk rip off, isn't it?" Rhodes asks. "Really, Barnes. Who's to say you didn't just make up this story in order to get off easy? How are we supposed to believe any of this?"

"Let me go back, just a moment," Vision interrupts. "I think emotions are getting the best of us."

I give him a _go ahead_ gesture.

"Mr. Barnes, you've been with Hydra since the plane crash," Vision continues. "You found it all too easy to rejoin Shield under the guise of a _newly_ awakened soldier, much like Captain Rogers woke up. Therefore, you had help from the inside, and we've surmised that Shield is not just compromised - but heavily influenced."

"You're protecting someone at Shield," Rhodes adds. "Whoever let _you_ in."

Barnes's eyes seem to shift a little in color.

"More than one person at Shield, I think," Vision keeps pushing. "It is Hydra, after all. The metaphor of tentacles goes beyond an emblem on their uniforms."

"Does Nick Fury know about this?" I ask.

I trust Nick. If Barnes tries to pretend that Nick is the one controlling him, I know for a fact that he's faking this whole Hulk gimmick.

Still nothing. Barnes doesn't answer. No expression, not even a micro one.

"Sorry, did we bump your off switch by accident?" I ask sarcastically.

"We're getting somewhere," Bruce says quietly. "He can't say much if we're getting somewhere good, right?"

"What about Alexander Pierce?" I ask.

Barnes gives me a look of such strange, over-boiling _anger_ that I blink in surprise, and take a step closer to the grid.

"Pierce is not involved, I operate entirely on my own," Barnes snarls.

"But you said you're programmed," Vision reminds him gently. "It does not sound like you operate on your own."

"I don't know what you've heard," Barnes sits up straight, his body language changing so entirely and swiftly that I genuinely feel an icy shiver run down my spine.

His eyes look gray, focused like steel. Back ramrod straight, hands clenched in fists. He's entirely ignoring the fallen gauze, the blood trickling freely down one arm. "But it's wrong. _I've_ done nothing wrong. If you are determined to make my life hell, I'll _leave._ I'll quit the Avengers, rejoin Shield. Isn't that what you want? To get rid of me?"

Silence.

We all look at each other. We all see it. It's subtle enough for someone not to notice, maybe on any ordinary day. But having him locked up, with the pain and fear and desperation in his voice not thirty seconds ago, only now to have him suddenly go cold…

"I'm just here to do my job," Barnes says with sarcastic patience. "Why can't you let me do my goddamn job?"

"So what was your job, exactly?" I ask. "A little murder here and there? Antagonizing Wade Wilson? Kissing up to Steve?"

He lowers his chin, giving me an expression of utter contempt, superiority. "Stark, don't patronize me. I'm just here to work."

"Pierce is working for Hydra," I say suddenly. "Isn't he? That's what made this whole switch-er-roo shit happen just now. We're outing your real boss. Isn't that right?"

Barnes suddenly bites back a weird sound of pain, squints his eyes shut, and buries the heel of his hand into one eye socket, as if warding off a migraine. He draws in his breath so quickly, he wheezes.

"Come on, Barnes," I urge. "Just a little hint? Remember like - five minutes ago - when you could just _Yes_ or _No_ this thing? Can we go back to that?"

No answer.

Vision clears his throat, trying to resume the easier questions. "What was your primary objective for Hydra?"

"I - can't - I can't - I can't - say," Barnes shouts through gritted teeth.

"Mercenary?" Vision asks.

Barnes lets out another shout of anguish and presses both hands to his eyes, shaking his head. "No."

"Assassin?"

Barnes rocks forward in his seat. Nods his head several times.

"Stop," Nat stands up swiftly and crosses to the window to stand beside Vision. "Barnes, stop. Stop fighting. Whatever this is. Stop."

He looks up, eyes completely bloodshot. " _I am not in control."_ He lets out a deep, relieved sigh. The hard look in his eyes dissipates.

"How did you keep this up?" she demands.

"I put on a good show. Played the part of a normal person. Did the routine, _dated you…"_

Rhodes gasps. " _Yo._ What?" He looks at Bruce with a horrified expression, but Bruce is perfectly calm, as usual.

Rhodes relaxes a little, realizing this isn't the first Bruce has heard about it.

"The more I did it, the easier it was to turn off," Barnes struggles in a hoarse tone, "I was locking it away. Piece by piece. It was easier and easier. I haven't been… been… fully triggered… for a long time… and then, and then…."

"I thought I was the liar," Nat sighs, she sounds exhausted and casual, as if commenting on how she likes her coffee.

"I knew you were trying to figure me out," Barnes shakes his head, slamming his palm into his skull, as if trying to dislodge water from an ear after a swim. "I never faulted you for it. Not once. Because I knew you were right not to trust me."

"Why keep up the pretense if you knew that I was spying on you?"

"Because I liked you too much to care," Barnes's eyes flick over to us, embarrassed. "I wanted to hang on to you as long as I could."

"You said something earlier I can't shake," she continues. "You said that next to you, Grant Ward is the greatest sniper out there."

"That is true."

"You said _you,"_ she repeats.

Barnes's expression fades away, replaced by non-emotion.

"But _James Barnes_ is not the greatest sniper," Natasha says firmly, "Everyone in this business knows that's _the Winter Soldier._ "

It sounds like we're on a spaceship, and someone just turned off the oxygen. _Whoosh._

Barnes's face says it all. It's so still, he could be a wax figure. Someone hit the off switch again.

"The Winter Soldier is real," Natasha pushes, "I know this because he shot me. In Odessa, a kill at over three thousand and five hundred yards."

Rhodey mumbles. "At that distance?"

"It went through me to the target I was trying to protect." She pays no attention to Rhodes, and kneels down so that she is eye-level with Barnes. He returns her stare, fearlessly expressionless.

Now I realize the weirdness of what I'm looking at. Two spies that have been playing footsie with each other for weeks trying to dig out each other's secrets. Nat, because she knew something was wrong with him. Barnes, because he didn't know how to get past all his brainwashing bullshit to get laid.

"Odessa, Ukraine," Natasha repeats. "You shot me. Didn't you? That was you."

Barnes opens his mouth, shuts it again.

"You've been killing people for a long time, Barnes," she sighs. "Innocent people."

He stares at her, his throat bobs with pain. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Natasha is making a point with this, but I'm not sure what yet. She's killed innocent people, too. She was doing dirty work long before she was with us. I know for certain she's not _that_ much of a hypocrite, and it's clear that she cares for Barnes, like Steve did.

Things could have been so different.

Part of me wishes I had tried harder to befriend him from the beginning. Maybe if I hadn't been so cold, gotten to know him, maybe I would have sensed things were off too and called him out earlier…

"Speaking of innocent people," Natasha continues. "Parker. You and Rumlow working for Hydra. And Hydra is working out of Shield… from the very top. How far does it go, Barnes? Far enough for Peter Parker to find something out?" She jerks her chin. "Sam told me that Parker had been working for Rogers undercover. Did he find you out? Find you out and threaten to turn you in?"

Barnes nods. "But I didn't kill him," he says in a small voice.

"The intruder alert," I interject. "When I sent in the Dumas. That wasn't Rumlow - or you. It was Peter. Wasn't it?"

"I didn't kill him, but I tried," Barnes repeats in a whisper. "Please believe me. It was… it was…"

"The Winter Soldier," Natasha says firmly. "If you can't _say_ it because of your convenient programming, I can."

I let out a _huff_ of surprise. "The Winter Soldier was triggered by some sort of command or something from Hydra, right?"

Barnes doesn't answer.

"Trust me," I add, "Steve filled me in on all of their experimental, psychological horrors. And you tried to kill Peter. Peter was going to turn you in. Rumlow finished the job."

"And then magically, and too late," Sam finishes our prediction, "Bucky Barnes just switches back on and shoots Rumlow in the head as punishment for killing the kid just as I walk in. That about right?"

Bucky Barnes looks at each of us for a second in turn, as if trying to choose who to confess his sins too. "I am a danger to all of you… don't let me out of this cage," he says quietly, gazed unfocused. He looks back at Natasha, and I feel awkward on his behalf at how much _love_ hovers there. "I am sorry for lying to you."

"Jesus, Barnes," Natasha stands slowly, putting a hand to her ribs. "We're all sorry. It changes nothing. Steve's still dead. So is that kid. I tiptoed around you for so _goddamn long_ trying to put my finger on what was going wrong, and now it's too late." She trembles a little. Her ribs are really hurting her, but she's angry, too. "Odessa. D.C."

"D.C.?" Sam repeats. "You mean like that time someone exploded half of downtown trying to kill Nick Fury D.C.?"

I'm not sure what happened in Odessa, but whatever it was, it was not good. Several things have happened in D.C. Luckily Nick Fury had escaped with his life but the identity of the would-be assassin was never found out. He loves to tell the story about how the man in the mask attacked his car, and he escaped through a man-hole in the street.

It's his favorite ice breaker.

Natasha doesn't usually let things cling to her like this. These things did, like vices. It's impossible to tell what goes on in that head - why some things affect her so deeply, and others she compartmentalizes and puts away.

"Winter Soldier," Natasha repeats. "A rep sheet longer than I can say. Kill shots at thousands… and…" she pauses. "Next to you, Grant Ward is only the _second_ greatest sniper. And if you didn't kill Steve, he did. And Parker is dead too - Rumlow may have got off a lucky shot, but you were already trying. Maybe you didn't kill him. You might as well have. There's a lot of people who are either dead because you killed them or dead because they got too close."

Barnes gives a barely discernible nod.

"That's on you," she whispers hoarsely. "But that's on me, too."

Natasha turns and walks out of the room very suddenly.

"Nat," Barnes calls out.

"Nuh uh," I raise my finger. "You don't get to do that." I watch his eyes follow her out of the room. Bruce leaps to his feet and goes out after Nat, shutting the door behind them.

"Now that the _This Is Us_ preview is over," I say briskly. "Barnes, I don't suppose there's any chance you outed our position to the Vulture during their faux sale to Ulysses Klaue."

"I'm sorry," Barnes whispers. "Yes… that was me."

And for the first time, he breaks. I see a tear run down his face. He reaches up with one hand and pushes it away.

"Can we go back to the part where The Winter Soldier isn't just a scary story that Fury likes to tell?" Rhodes exclaims. "You're trying to say the Winter Soldier is _real_ and sitting in our goddamn box?"

"Perhaps it would be best for everyone to… sit down, for a moment," Vision says neutrally. "There's still the matter of what we are to do once we've gleaned all the information that we can. We've just been told that Hydra has infiltrated Shield from the very top position. If Pierce is Hydra, then the entire world is at risk, not just a few factions, or one location. We've suspected as much for some time, but never to that degree."

Vision gives me a look, and then Rhodes and Sam. "Our enemies surround us - and - it seems - have taken control of the minds of our friends. Do we not just avenge those that have fallen, but try to prevent _more_ unnecessary death? Should we not focus our efforts on gathering as much intel from Mr. Barnes as we can to better serve the protection and well-being of our friends and civilians?"

Silence.

I guess we'll see.

...

* * *

 **Orphans - Natasha Romanoff**

* * *

...

"Hey, wait up," Bruce jogs up behind me, putting out a gentle hand to touch my arm. Not the possessive way men generally hook a hand through the elbow to try and steer someone the other direction. Keeps his hand on the outside, just a light surface touch. Every little thing that Bruce does - every gesture, every mannerism - makes me feel safe.

I stop and turn to face him, leaning my back against the wall.

"You okay?" he asks concernedly. "We haven't had a chance to talk since you got back. We just… jumped right into this mess. He nearly _killed_ you."

"I'm not so easily killed," I remind him gently.

"Even so," Bruce shrugs. He looks down at my abdomen and reaches out to skim a hand on the edge of my hooded jacket, pushing it aside and laying a warm hand on the busted ribs.

I wince. "Cracked. Maybe broken."

"We should get this looked at. Why don't we go to the hospital wing? We can do an X-ray…"

I catch his hand in my own and bring it up to my face, forcing him to cup my chin and cheek in his hand. He's not put off by it, of course, and lifts his other hand of his own accord to cradle my face in his hands. "I'm sorry about Steve," he says quietly.

I press my palms to the backs of his hands. Holding them, holding me. "Me too."

He brings his hands down to my shoulders. "How um… how was the flight from Canada?" he asks.

I never went to Canada.

"It was good," I say, my voice thin and the single syllable of _good_ an octave too high. I slip my arms around his waist, locking my fingers in the small of his back. It feels so good to hold him like this. "Bruce…remember when I promised it was easier to fall back on a lie than tell a truth I don't know or understand?"

He tilts his head. "Why are you… wait." His eyes darken with concern. "You didn't go to Canada."

"No. And sorry… about that. I wasn't trying to deceive you."

Bruce shrugs his shoulders. "You haven't. Not yet. It's hard to be deceived if you don't know what's going on in the first place."

"You remember what I told you about the sterilization process in the Black Widow program. Prevents mistakes and frees us from that fear."

His fingers press into my shoulders, one thumb moving absently in a comforting gesture. "I remember."

"I had a dream a few nights ago," I say carefully. "That I had a sonogram in my hand, um… I handed it to you and you were so happy. Happier than I've ever seen. I woke up in a cold sweat and felt like I'd lost something I'd never had to begin with."

Bruce winces, as if someone stabbed him. "I'm… I'm so sorry. Nat."

I pause. His hands caress my shoulders, as if he's just trying to warm me up.

"So when I said I was going to Canada," I try again, "I… I wasn't. I was going to an experimental facility on Three Mile Island."

"In Pennsylvania? Like nuclear incident Three Mile Island? _That_ Three Mile Island?"

"It's a facility that specializes in regenerative technologies," I explain. "Primarily… enhancements… our comrade Wade Wilson being their number one golden boy experiment."

"Easy there, Russia," Bruce tries to smile, but just can't irk out more than a twinge of his lips. "So you mean to tell me that _Wade Wilson_ was once just a normal looking guy who didn't always magically bounce back from bullet wounds and death?"

"Yeah. He was one of their experiments. And no, he did not sign up for that face."

"I don't understand why you went there."

"They don't just create enhanced individuals… they do… healing."

"Healing," he repeats, doubtful.

Bruce doesn't light up like I thought he would at this point. I was waiting for _that_ reaction, the realization of what I was trying to do for us.

"A serum," I whisper. "There's… a serum guaranteed to reverse even the worst, unimaginable damage. They've been working on it for some time." I try to chuckle, but it turns into more of a painful gasp that I quickly swallow. "I wouldn't need any special mutatation, and it wouldn't turn me into Deadpool's shredded-faced twin, either."

Bruce takes this in, weighs his words carefully. "It sounds like a dangerous procedure," he pushes hair behind my ear and searches my gaze, his own flicking back and forth as if waiting for writing to appear in my eyes. "Is… is this something you did while you were there? Had this procedure?"

"No," I answer, and it is the truth. "I didn't… undergo any changes. I wanted to talk to you first. I was only looking into it."

He pauses, considering his questions carefully. "May I ask why this is something you were looking into?"

I can't answer that yet. "I kept thinking about your face, when you saw our baby," I say. "In my dream. How happy you were."

"You make me happy," he says firmly.

"But I _know_ you want kids someday. Kids I can't give you."

He shakes his head. "There's plenty of kids out there without parents. We'll look into adoption. It will take a lot of time, and money. When we're ready, we're ready."

"But, if we could be _parents..._ "

"Just because the child wouldn't be biologically ours doesn't mean it won't be ours. We'll still be parents together, Natasha." He smiles suddenly. "That's the first time we've ever actually said this out loud, you know. I was afraid for such a long time we couldn't… or I couldn't… ever be fully trusted to… you know."

"If the Hulk is dormant, you feel free," I reply.

"You and a child of ours would be safe from my stress-levels turning into an actual danger to you, that's what matters most," he holds me tighter, moving his arms to wrap up my shoulders securely, avoiding the ribs. "I would never want to put you in harm's way."

"But let's say I was able to make use of the capabilities of this serum," I say. "What if it worked. If there was such a thing as magic - I mean, not, like Wanda's powers - but if you had the magic to change _me,_ fix me… wouldn't you want that?"

Bruce looks like I've slapped him in the face. He pulls me gently away from the wall, presses me against his chest, and lays his hand on the back of my skull. As if trying to absorb me fully, to make me understand something that I can't see.

"Even if I had all the magic in world," he whispers. "Even then. I would never change a thing about you. Never. Do you hear me? That's… that's not _love_. Love is growing together. And we will. In many ways." He pulls back and kisses me, holding my face again. "I don't want to change you, and I never would want you to change yourself, either. Not in a million years."

My chin trembles again, and I kiss him back, firmly and thankfully. "I love you," I say.

"I love you."

I gently release myself from his hold, but he clings to my hand. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Did… did I say something wrong?"

"You said everything right," I promise him. "I just… I'm just going to go up to the hospital wing. Just real quick. I can't be in that room any more and listen to Barnes wrestle in his own head. It hurts too much."

"I am sorry," Bruce repeats. "I know Wilson thought this would be a good _mission_ for you, but I know you cared for him. It's hard to see someone you care for turn into this."

I sigh. "If I had listened to my gut from the beginning - something said he was off, and I suspected he was compromised somehow."

"Compromised, maybe. You could never have guessed he was the Winter Soldier, though…"

"No," I shake my head, relenting. "That's… true. I would never have guessed that. Somehow that's even worse. If only I took care of this before I left…"

"None of this was your fault. None of it."

"Things could have been different if I did not put it off just because it was painful."

"I think a lot of us could say the same. But it doesn't necessarily change anything."

"I had thought he had lied about being recovered from the ice just this year," I remind him. "I should have known…"

"But you didn't know he was the Winter Soldier yet," Bruce repeats. "Nat. You couldn't have known. No one would have been able to figure that out." Bruce squeezes my hand. "We all have to process this. Process Steve's death. The informant, too… Peter."

"That poor kid..."

"It's going to take time."

"I know."

"You have to give yourself time, Natasha. Will you promise me you'll try?"

"I will," I tug him back in and kiss him again. "Just… give me a few minutes. I'll come back."

"I'll come with you?"

"No, it's okay. Stay. Make sure Tony and Sam don't murder him."

"I think Vision and Rhodey can hold them back just fine."

I squeeze his hand. "Listen to me, Bruce. I'm okay. Better than okay… now that we've… talked about this. I don't know why I waited to bring this up."

"I'm sorry we didn't talk about this sooner. _I_ should have reassured you about this. You should have known from the beginning that I wouldn't want you to… you know. Change yourself for me in anyway. Especially in a dangerous place like Wade Wilson's old playground."

"I only… I only wanted to surprise you. And test the serum. I am sorry I made up the story about being on mission in Canada. I mean, I guess it was a mission, just not in Canada. Three Mile Island is not the friendliest place. I think the facility director might be a mad scientist." I give him a tired smile. "Like you."

Bruce appreciates my attempt to joke with him, but he knows my heart just isn't in it. "I love you," he says. "Just how you are. Not the way we… dream about, or wish. I'll say it every day until you believe it."

I smile at him, too overwhelmed. I can barely say _I love you_ in return.

"I love you," I say hoarsely. I don't say it often enough. Hell, maybe I've only said it once or twice, and only when I thought he needed to hear it - not because I was so in love with him at that moment that I couldn't stop myself from declaring it out loud.

I guess that's what normal people call _shouting it from the rooftops._

"Go get cleared by the medics," he smiles back. "Text me if you want my help. Otherwise I'll see you when you're done."

"Okay."

Our hands release, but I feel his warmth in my fingers long after I've lost sight of him.

He is good… truly good. I've told him before and I believe it even more now.

I don't deserve him, not really.

I'm a liar and I always will be. It's my job. It's in my muscle memory.

It's built into me. Programmed.

"Oh, Barnes," I sigh out loud, pushing the button for the door to slide open to the morgue, not the med rooms.

 _How could you? How can I? How could_ _we do these things to the people we love?_

The morgue is empty of staff at the moment.

Good.

There are two tables side by side with sheets drawn up over the faces. Only one fluorescent light is buzzing in the corner, casting a blue corpse light in the room and reflected by the steel cupboards, steel tools, a steel sink in the corner. There's a door to another room, and I know Steve is in there, under lock and key, being prepared for a funeral.

I'll need to go see Sharon, make sure she's okay.

It's freezing cold in here, and I feel the urge to vomit. I don't spend time in morgues on a regular basis. I've put bodies in a morgue before, I've been an assassin in my time. Maybe even a good spy. After Barnes, though, my oversight… my procrastination… my naive trust in Steve's trust… it ruined all of this. I'm ready to hang up my red hourglass belt.

I need to step away from it all, and I want to start a family with Bruce.

From my pocket, I pull out a plastic package containing small vial and syringe. I go to the smallest body, under the shroud. I pull back the white sheet and look at his dead, dead, dead face.

Thank God his eyes are shut. Lips slightly parted, a reaction to surprise, pain. Maybe just falling asleep - if it weren't for the blood, the dark hole in his forehead.

His skin is that horrible gray pallor.

The punk-looking assistant at Three Mile was strictly unempathetic when she explained how to use the serum. When to use it, how to use it, and what the effects could be.

"You're not really a nurse," I had stated, coyly.

"They call me Angel Dust," she had replied cryptically. The name somehow suited her black, greased mullet slicked back from her forehead, the dark clothes visible under the scrub apron. I spotted high-grade military combat boots, too.

"Do they," I respond lightly.

"But it's my day off," she had given me a wicked smile, and handed me the vial and syringe. "On my day off, I get to play doctor here. First time I've been able to improve an Avenger, though. So you read and signed that waiver and shit, right? This stuff isn't for pussies."

I feel guilt for making Bruce believe I never left the facility with the serum. That I would somehow need to go back and complete tests if he wanted me to do it. The procedure is refined enough for home use.

If it worked, Bruce and I could have children, biologically. _Our_ child...

If it didn't work, nothing would happen. I would still be sterile.

"Forgive me, Bruce," I whisper.

The syringe fills with amber-colored liquid.

Following her instructions, and ignoring the guilty feeling that I am somehow violating Peter Parker's state of being without his consent, I put the needle directly into the bullet hole. I wince, shut my eyes briefly, and let out a deep breath as I count to five and slowly push the plunger down until the syringe is empty.

I guiltily look at the room where I know Steve is.

I have one shot. And there's one kid.

Steve would understand, and I know this is what he would want.

I withdraw the syringe, throw the pieces away in the trash, and wait.

I go back to Peter's side. No change.

Still very much dead. I put my hand lightly on his chest, feeling for any change. Any warmth. A flutter of a heartbeat, maybe.

Nothing.

It was worth it, I realize. I may not have kids of my own, but I can try and save just one.

It's a one-time beta offer and thousands of dollars my own money. One test, one dose. Signed a waiver, picked it up, learned how to use it. I can't go back and get another one, they don't offer mass production. It's only a single chance and I can choose how to use it.

I feel a wrenching pain in my heart - but not for me. For Peter Parker, this kid I've never met, a kid that Steve knew, a kid that Steve believed in. Someone whose future was stolen - like mine was. It took someone like Clint Barton to step in and offer me another way. I don't know that this kid has anyone fighting for him right now. Maybe that's me, even if it's a failure.

"I'm sorry, kid," I say huskily. I pull the sheet back over his face, lay my hand on his chest one more time, my fingers throbbing with grief and anxiety pushing its way through my veins.

I'm willing to admit this isn't working. So. Nobody needs to know. Least of all Barnes - whom I have to face again, now.

Face him and tell him, to his face, why I was playing him. _You're my mission,_ I might say. _Nothing more. Nothing less._

Despite everything, I feel that I owe him that explanation. It was a mistake and I shouldn't have let Wade Wilson convince me it was a good idea, even without the good-natured blackmail of threatening to tell everyone about Bruce and I. He could have told them and it wouldn't have mattered - but I was as thrown off as he was by the prospect of a preserved ice soldier landing in the Avengers and given every clearance without so much as a batted eye.

It didn't keep anything bad from happening, so it shouldn't have happened in the first place. I should have remembered Steve's favorite piece of advice - planting oneself like a tree.

I should have just planted myself and told Wilson to go bark up some other tree.

Barnes needs to know that none of the romance was real. But the moments of vulnerability, bonding...some semblance of friendship, that wasn't imagined.

I do care for him in my own way. Maybe we can try and help him. For Steve's sake - or rather… in memoriam.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT:** Bucky reveals more of his twisted involvement. And whatever happened to Deadpool?

* * *

 **Dearest readers,**

 **Between the cursing, the death-threats, and the super-long reviews, I must say these are probably the best reactions I could have possibly have hoped for. I feel a sort of evil delight in your responses, but also a deep heart-wrenching sympathy and remorse for what I've put you through. I know you are still not seeing that happy ending yet in this chapter, but I hope there are some decent enough hints of what is to come so that you feel a little better. Keep reading my lovelies, and thank you as always for being the best god-dm readers on the planet. Love and hugs to all and of course MORE APOLOGIES because you are all saints and you deserve everything your heart desires**

 **Love,**

 **Pip**

* * *

...


	25. Executions

**Trigger Warnings** Self harm, and frank references/discussions of suicide and self harm. Another blatant death scene. Bad language and hints of psychological torture/brainwashing/Hydra programming etc.

* * *

…

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Executions**

...

* * *

 **Forgive Me - _Bucky Barnes_**

* * *

...

"Sometimes it's both," I am trying so desperately to explain. My tongue hurts badly from biting it earlier, my head is pounding with a migraine, and I'm talking too loudly because I am trying to hear myself think over the voice in my head reciting my trigger words in Russian and English on repeat, over and over and over again.

 _Longing._

 _Rusted._

 _Seventeen._

 _Daybreak..._

"Sometimes I can't tell," I say, pressing a hand to my jaw to try and stop the throbbing. "Sometimes it's easier to tell who is in control when… when something bad happens. I know when I called the Vulture that night and told him you were going to hijack the sale of the microprocessors, Bucky Barnes might as well have been dead."

"Why can you talk now? As opposed to before? _Before_ Steve died?"

"I think I've been wearing him down," I take a deep breath. Vision is sitting beside me on the fold out bed, a first-aid kit open and my jacket and shirt in a pile beside him. There's a pair of surgical tweezers in his hand, and he digs into the flesh of my bare shoulder and extracts the bullet. The hole through my wrist throbs inside a tightly wrapped bandage.

I hiss with pain and bite back a loud groan.

"My apologies," Vision says serenely.

"My primary objective was to keep the Avengers from Toomes while his techie finished upgrading and selling those microprocessors, and then finding the informant..." I heave a loud, shuddering breath, in and out. "I can say it now because Toomes is dead. So where does that leave my objective? I might be a perfectly programmed soldier... but the program itself… it's not a perfect..."

"Brainwashing directive?" Sam fills in sarcastically.

"You've been fighting it this whole time, trying to push back on your programming," Tony asks. "Am I right?"

"Yes."

"Somewhere along the lines you found out that Peter Parker was the informant but never told the Vulture," Tony adds. "You managed to keep that under wraps. I wonder why you were better at some secrets but not others."

"Like I said. I fought it," I say bitterly. "I had no idea that Brock Rumlow was Hydra, so it didn't do him much good."

"What was he even doing in the building?" Rhodes asks.

"He was sent to extract me tonight. My mission was over. Vulture was dead. The microprocessors were recovered, weren't they? Grant Ward probably went crying to his superiors about how I failed."

Rhodes laughs. "You're an idiot if you _believe_ anything Rumlow said. He sure as hell wasn't here to extract you. Hydra doesn't do _rescue._ They eliminate a liability."

"Rumlow was here to assassinate you, I bet," Sam chimes in. "Did he at any point as you to go up to the roof?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Well," Sam snorts. "He was probably going to throw you off. I've seen that bit before."

"They probably fear exactly what's happening right now," Tony says. "You giving us this intel."

Vision pulls a thread through my skin, and there's an uncomfortable tug as the bullet hole is sewn shut. He clips the extra thread and presses a clean gauze over the stitches, taping it down beside the first one. He pulls my uninjured wrist towards him, turns it over, and taps for a vein. He injects something from a syringe and needle right into my bloodstream.

"For the pain," he says calmly. "That should last the night."

I nod at Vision. "Don't leave anything in here with me."

Vision certainly didn't need me to explain something so obvious. "I did not plan to," he says. He collects the first aid kit, and then walks right through the wall.

I guess this prison works for literally everyone and anything except him.

I stand uneasily, grabbing my shirt off the bed and slowly putting it back on.

Tony gives me a minute before continuing the interrogation. Probably the nicest interrogation I've ever had. There's a sufficient lack of torture.

"What happens to you now?" he asks. "Since you're releasing the intel anyway?"

I give him a grim, tired look, adjusting the sleeves and reaching for the jacket.

"The Winter Soldier is programmed against suicide - but isn't programmed to release intel after getting caught, either," I reply slowly. "Oversight flaw. Most self-harm seems to work as long as it isn't deadly."

Stark and Wilson stare at me, horrified.

"What does that mean, exactly?" Vision asks.

I wince. I wasn't wanting to tell them this - any of this. To be this vulnerable.

"They don't want their super-soldiers to get depressed and kill themselves." I try to explain. "To protect their investment. I would cost them thousands otherwise."

Silence.

"Sometimes the program's own twisted version of _self-defense_ is to hurt itself so that it can't release valuable information to the enemy. Or what's left of my own mind opts for hurting myself to keep the Winter Soldier from taking over entirely. Sometimes pain helps keep me from hurting someone…" I pause, unable to go on. I didn't want to talk about this. Not to anyone except Steve.

"You've tried to kill yourself before?" Sam asks suddenly.

"I've hurt myself a lot… before," I answer weakly. The blood loss making me woozy. "Only when Barnes - I mean, me - was trying to protect someone or something from my directive."

"The busted nose," Rhodes says. "When you came into the rec room."

"Yes," I reply. "I guess I'm prevented from strangling myself, or beating myself in the head till I'm unconscious..." I flex my hands, bruised, and sore. "But the urge is still there," I add offhandedly, putting pressure on my wrist again. It keeps me focused. "From the soldier. Taunting it. Suggesting it."

I sit back down heavily in the chair, trying to tease the muscles and stretch my hands out. I dig the fingers of my left hand into the gauze bandage tight around the stab wound in my right wrist from Sam's wingtip.

Tony's eyes flick down to my knuckles turning white over my wrist. "Stop that."

I force myself to let go of my wrist.

"I would imagine that if there wasn't a Winter Soldier hiding in your head trying to kill everyone and make you hurt yourself," Tony sighs, "You'd listen to my advice more."

"Maybe." I look away. "I wouldn't know."

"What happens if we erase this directive somehow?" Vision asks. "Get rid of the programming?"

I don't know what kind of joke this is, but I play along. "Then I guess I'm... free."

"Then we'll do what it takes," Tony replies, his face like stone.

"But I'm… I'm a traitor? I've hurt this team. It's my fault this all happened."

"This is for Steve," Tony explains. "I am forcing myself to try and understand this - and believe me - I'd rather be angry with you. I'd rather blame you. But the easy thing isn't always the right thing. If you have been a brainwashed, mind-sucking prisoner for Steve's worst enemy, than Steve would want us to save you. We _should_ want to save you."

I open my mouth to protest, but he goes on.

"It's the right thing to do. You can say you don't deserve it all you want - and maybe you don't. But let's say it works. We bleach that brain of yours until there is no Hydra or Winter Soldier shit and all that is left is James Barnes. Don't you think he'd be a little grateful that we tried?"

I try to imagine what that would be like. "I don't know."

"I need one thing from you right now," Tony bends down and rests on his heels, folding his hands patiently. "You said the Winter Soldier is the best sniper in the world. And you still are absolutely certain that _you_ did not shoot and kill Steve Rogers - even if your mind completely checked out and it had full control. Even then. Can you absolutely say for certain that it wasn't you?"

"Yes. I was here at the facility when it happened."

"Then the second-most great sniper," Tony spits the words out sarcastically, hating to compliment Steve's murderer in even the most indirect sense. "Grant Ward. He was at the purchase, and he was the first to run. Did he kill Steve Rogers?"

I nod slightly, and choke out the words. "I believe so."

"Belief isn't what I'm looking for," he says strangely. "We've established that we all _believe_ it was him. I need your certainty."

"You want proof?" I ask.

"Yes," Tony answers. The door behind him opens slightly, and Bruce Banner slips back into the room. He closes the door behind him, leans on it, and looks tiredly at the scene. Not bothering to rejoin Sam at the table.

"Follow Vulture's sales, then," I say, shifting my concentration. " _He's_ the one that upgraded the ammunition to be lined with vibranium. But he refused to tell me who he sold them to."

I pause. This lie happens all too easily. I know exactly who he sold them to - Alexander Pierce. But I don't know who Pierce handed it to. And I can't make myself tell them who it is.

That information, as much as I am betraying now, is still protected.

"Why don't I get back on the phone?" Banner asks. "I'll make it sound like I'm just crunching numbers. Ross will talk to me again. I'll get those sales. He kept records _somewhere."_

Tony nods eagerly. "Do it."

Bruce avoids looking at me entirely, shutting the door behind him.

"Vulture refused to tell you, and you killed him," Rhodes added. "You know, we could have captured him and made _him_ talk."

"Actually," Tony says painfully. "Not so much. Vulture has been feeding information to the CIA. Remember when we captured Randy many moons ago? We didn't get to keep him. We sure as hell wouldn't have been allowed to keep and interrogate the Vulture. We would have had shit. Everett would have swooped in and snatched him right up." He gives me a look. "It's better that he's dead."

I don't say anything.

"You keep saying the very _top_ of Shield is compromised," Sam says. "But is anyone else under the impression that Nick Fury can be trusted? That he's totally exempt from this? If he's Hydra I'd eat my left hand."

I don't have to confirm that I had tried to kill him in D.C. Nat guessed - she was more familiar with the Winter Soldier's work than I gave her credit for. Pierce pulled the mission and said it would be better to not make Fury a martyr, and I had been so relieved…

I nod, barely.

"Nick Fury is second from the top," Tony continues. "By default, Alexander Pierce is Hydra. He's your handler, he's the one… he's the one holding your brain in his hand."

I feel like I might vomit. I can't answer, but the look on my face is enough.

"If he can't tell us, that's a definite yes," Sam erupts.

"If Alexander Pierce were to unexpectedly die," Tony says, his voice shrill, frighteningly hopeful. "What happens to that brainwashing?"

"It can't be triggered like it could before," I say. "The Winter Soldier would still be there, as well as old directives, but… he… uh…"

"Pierce."

"His… power over me would be over. He could not use the keywords to lock in a newly specific agenda to murder all of you, as he's threatened to many times in the past. You would be safe from me."

"Do your special little brainwashing codewords exist anywhere else?" Sam asks. "No one can just, nab a study guide and make you their new assassin, right?"

I shudder and look at the floor. I realize I can't stop shaking.

"Allow me to interrupt for a moment," Vision pulls something out of the first aid kit. It's a small silver blanket, looks more like plastic than fabric. It unfolds sort of like a road map.

So it can't be used to wind up in a thin, rope like twist with which to hang myself from the pipe sticking out of the ceiling approximately fourteen feet above my head…

Vision slides effortlessly through the window again, hands me the silver material. "It's an emergency blanket," he says. "You need to stay warm."

I wrap it around myself. It crinkles at a comically high volume, but the heat is instantaneous.

"Thanks," I say shortly. It took as much effort to thank him as it did to release protected intelligence. The Winter Soldier fights me on _everything._ Maybe I didn't even realize how much of me had been worn away, like rot.

Bruce peers back into the room. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"The order came from the Triskelion," he says shortly. "Ross still thinks it was just some ordinary buy-out - purchasing material from criminals to _keep it off the streets._ He doesn't think Pierce was actually using this stuff."

"So Pierce buys the bullets, literally, and Ross still thinks he's on the up and up?" Rhodes exclaims. "Good _grief."_

"Grant Ward signed in that day," Bruce continues. "He turned a report into Fury for _collecting materials for storage._ That was the ammunition. It never _made_ it to storage - I just called the facility. That's your rogue assassin." He starts to leave - and rethinks this. "I'm going to go find Natasha," he mumbles, and shuts the door again.

I look at the floor.

"So maybe Pierce dies," Tony says. I glance up, confused. "And then we find some sort of brilliant intern with a royal pedigree who is a hundred times smarter than me to fix the rest of you."

"Okay, wait, so which one do we wana kill?" Sam says sarcastically.

"That's oddly specific," Vision says. "Who has the royal pedigree? Do you have someone in mind already?"

"Back the hell up," Rhodey says, "You can't just murder Alexander Pierce. Tony. Think about what you are saying. There is no going back from this. The Avengers would go dark, we'd be enemies of the state, we'd be…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Tony holds up a hand. "Who said anything about killing Alexander Pierce?"

"You just DID," Rhodey throws out his hands.

Tony presses his hand to his chest, offended. "I would never dream of doing such a thing. I'm the _science_ division. _I'm_ going to track down a certain Wakandan princess to turn Barnes's skull-slush into a working brain again. That's _my_ directive. I leave killings to the mercenaries."

Rhodey's eyes slowly drift shut as if he heard a very bad pun that he didn't like.

"Wait up, Bruce," Tony says suddenly, leaving the room. Before the door swings shut, I see him extract his phone from his pocket.

Rhodes and Sam give me a look that could melt an iceberg.

"Why don't we take a short break," Vision says serenely. "I'll watch him."

I get off the chair and go to the small bed hanging out of the wall. There's no mattress, but it's better than sitting up in the chair any longer than necessary.

I feel the warmth and the blood loss mingling together in some semblance of falling asleep. Maybe I just lose consciousness.

Either way, I need to make everything stop for just a few moments. Turn it all off. So I can stop thinking about me.

And about Steve.

How disappointed he'd be in me.

...

* * *

 **Feelings - Wade Wilson**

* * *

 _..._

 _Ring, ring._

"Sunnyside Taxidermy, if you kill Bambi's mother, we know how to stuff'er!"

"Deadpool," Tony says tiredly. "I got you a lead."

"Talk to me, Goose!"

"The Hydra leader is Alexander Pierce, and he's had his clutches in Barnes with some pseudo magical science hoo-doo."

"What the FUCK? Like brainwashing?"

"Yeah, like brainwashing."

"How the fuck did you find that out?"

"Pierce sent Brock Rumlow to bring him in tonight. There was a fight. James Barnes is now in isolation and he's… uh… cooperating."

"I fucking knew he was the leak. Didn't I fucking say I knew he was the leak?"

"You did."

"So… Nat's out of bag, right?"

"Uh… yeah."

"I have one question. DID she bone him?"

"Don't ask me that. I don't know. And I don't care."

"And how is ol' Rum doing?"

"He's dead."

"Great! Great news! Thank you. _L'Chaim._ "

"Pierce still has some semblance of control, and in order to fix it, we need…"

"I've always wanted to see what the Sundance Kid would look like with two heads," I interrupt. "My sword is sharp. Tell Barnes I will _officially_ stop hating him once he figures out what the fucking goo in his head is doing, okay?"

"Slow down. There's more."

"I love it when you speak my love language. Go on."

"Grant Ward pulled the trigger on Cap."

"Listen, I got three things to say to you about this. One, I've been tracking that white ass for a long time. And let me tell you, it looks better right in front of me than it does running away. Don't get into that too much. Or do, if you're into that sort of thing. Two, I'm already on my way to D.C. for my origami class, so that's a fortunate cop out when no one wants to write about the traffic on the I-95. It's like, four hours there, four hours back - so - Three, it will be dinner time by the time I get back. I'm picking up chinese. Any special requests? Wait, no, don't answer that. I will just get everything plus a handful of bathroom mints."

"Jesus Christ, Wade."

"Close enough, but he was whiter." I reload my gun. "How's Sugarbear?"

"Sugarbear?"

"Peter Parker! Don't tell me you guys left him out there _again._ You promised, Stark."

A pause.

"What, are there subtitles or something that I can't fucking see from here?" I ask angrily. "What gives?"

Tony groans. "We're going to need to have a serious talk about Peter when you get back. I mean it. And _not_ over the phone."

"I don't do serious. Just tell me he's not on the street and he's in your goddamn tower."

"He's… in the tower."

"I need to hear you say _goddamn_ tower."

"You've heard me swear before. You don't need more."

"It's called expanding your screen-time. He's there _now?_ At the tower?"

"... yes, but…"

"Okay, tell him hi, ruffle his hair, ask him where his mole went, and don't let him meet any redheads. I gotta run. Any other factoids I need before I paint the inside of this wall with my least favorite DNA?"

"This conversation also never happened."

"Bye, bye, birdie," I sing.

 _End call._

I love the smell of lead in the morning.

I take a deep sniff at the muzzle of my .45 Firestar. If I weren't wearing my Deadpool mask, I might be licking it. But let's not tempt fate.

My other gun in hand is pointed at Grant Ward's forehead. Post manly-wrestle in the dark of the basement I chased him to, and he's been disarmed, the gun lying some distance away. Not as far as I would like, but hey, dead men can't be choosers. He's kneeling in front of me, and hands locked behind his skull.

Listening to my half of the conversation with Tony Stark with growing discomfort.

I've been chasing down this lunatic for awhile now. But sometimes a cop out is just that - cops are _out,_ Avengers are in, and Steve needed a little avenging.

My ipod starts playing Tina Turner, _what's love got to do with it._

 _You must understand though the touch of your hand_

 _Makes my pulse react_

"All right, Grant Douglas Ward," I say. "First we start this out with fun facts. There's 31,622,400 seconds in a leap year. And 31,536,000 in a common year."

"The hell...?"

"So every four years you're closer to your death by 86,400 seconds."

Grant Ward rolls his eyes, but there's fear there, too. "You're psychotic."

"Takes one to know one, buttercup. But I'm not the one putting vibranium bullets into the world's favorite hero. So I am significantly less psychotic. Clinically."

He glares at me. "Revenge doesn't suit your little family."

"So you admit if I kill you, it's revenge, by default, admitting you are truly the one that killed Captain Steven Rogers?"

 _It's physical_

 _Only logical_

 _You must try to ignore that it means more than that oooOOOOoooOoo_

Grant lifts his chin, looking sickeningly proud. "I'm not hiding anything. I shot Captain Rogers. That was the mission."

" _I knew_ you were going to say it, and yet, still hurts." I sigh deeply. "But it'll hurt me way more than it'll hurt you. Sticks and stones, my friend. Sticks and stones. Your words are like sticks, but I have the stones. Your admittance is the only thing I wanted, because it gives me full clarity of conscience to make sure that, by the end of this overly verbose scene that tries WAY too hard to be threequel material, you're dead."

I twirl the gun in my hand to elaborate. "As in - not breathing, no heartbeat, no surprise resurrections, no last minute escapes, no vacations to Tahiti, and otherwise no possible comic book comeback. We're not going to Issue Number Seventy-Five Doomsday this thing, and we're not traveling in time to fix the bullshit of a certain Titan playing a West Side Story prologue. Your contract is up, buddy. It should have been up a long, long time ago."

"You don't want to _kill_ me," Ward says slowly. "We're not so different, you and I. It seems like no matter what we do, we're always coming back, used and abused by our agencies again and again…"

"AHHHHHHHHHH," I yawn suddenly. "I dropped out for a minute there. Look, I get it. Everyone gets a death monologue in your neck of the woods. But this is cutting room floor material. Unless it's Snyder. Then it all goes in. Does my upper lip look funny to you?"

"Okay, okay! I get it! Fine. Just, get on with it, asshole," Grant snarls, blood running between his teeth, from the abrasions on his forehead. I see his eyes flick over to his fallen gun about three yards away. His body language shifts by a nearly invisible millimeter.

Boy ain't going down without a fight. I wouldn't mind seeing a little bit more of that!

 _What's love got to do, got to do with it_

 _What's love but a second hand emotion_

"You know if I _don't,_ and I let _you_ get on with it, you spend an entire six months or so playing host to a religious alien with a questionable accent," I tell him. "If that doesn't stretch your thespian vulnerability like a pair of good lederhosen, I don't know what does. Here's my question. Do all lederhosen bunch up like that at the groin because of the way it buttons, or do all traditional German folks have abnormally _large..."_

"Why are you _still talking?_ "

"Don't worry, I am saving you from daytime TV dairy farm, because damn, they know how to milk one actor to their absolute expiration date."

Grant Ward gives me a dark, seething, purely evil and psychopathic expression. Or is it sociopathic?

 _There's a name for it_

 _There's a phrase that fits_

 _But whatever the reason you do it for me ooOOOoooOOOooooo_

He twists very suddenly, elongating his body like a fucking leopard leaping off a rock. He throws his body across the cement space, grasping his fallen gun, twisting before fully hitting the floor and squeezing off a shot in my direction, while I simultaneously pull both triggers in each hand.

 _I've been thinking about my own protection_

 _It scares me to feel this way oh oh oh_

His bullet goes through my left elbow. "Oh fucking fuck, FUCK," I shake my wrist around, and my arm flops just a little too much. "Oh wait - I guess I'd better practicing censorship. Damn! Shit! That hurts like a Melon Farmer! MELON FARMER!"

I look down at Grant Ward, lying prone before me, his gun laying on his stomach where he dropped it and a hole in his forehead.

You can never really tell if they're dead or just negotiating a new contract.

"You know, I really truly believe there is no ounce of irony here. Poetic justice _is_ dead. As are you. But if there was any sense of true justice, I would not have to be the one pulling this trigger. Someone who hates you way, way more than me - like, from your own writer's room. Any one of them would do, but, as it turns out, I'm the one with proximity."

The earbud stuck in one ear gracefully reaches the end of the song and begins playing

Morris Albert.

 _Feelings, nothing more than feelings,_

 _Trying to forget my feelings of love._

 _Teardrops rolling down on my face,_

 _Trying to forget my feelings of love._

Grant Ward's body spasms.

"FUCKING FUCK FUCK!" I scream, startled, pulling my triggers again.

BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG

BANG

I shoot him eight more times.

* * *

...

* * *

 **Next - Shhh, spoilers. No apologies this time. Delighted cackles. I believe I will post it Wednesday evening (Pacific Standard Time, USA).**

* * *

Personal Review Replies

* * *

Tightpants182 - OMG I love you and I'm so sorry for torturing you. Bless you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. MORE TO COME :)

Sakura-Fiction - I love your amazing review haha it's so long and thoughtful and made me nod and go "AHA!" and also get really excited. I have A Plan if you will about this whole death thing... no spoilers or anything but you're not that far off? haha. Thank as always for joining. Happy readings!

LeDbrite - Oh my goodness, welcome welcome from the silent review squad to the slightly noisier ones. Thank you so much for your amazing review, it really made my day on a rough day. Thank you for your thoughtful and kind words, I truly appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed!

Up-In-the-Clouds1285 - Thank you for your thoughtful review! I felt the same way about Steve though, it was so wrong but after awhile it felt like the right choice for the story - I considered not doing it for a long time! Thank you for joining in, happy reading my friend!

DaWriter06 - Ugh I know freaking Infinity War ruined me and now I've gone and killed people too, apparantly I've learned nothing! lol. Thank you for your awesome reviews!

cargumentluv - Ahhhh thank you for the awesome review! Happy reading!

LoonyLovegood1981 - Ehhhhhhh as the great Princess Diaries movie famously sung to us "Miracles happen Ooooonce in awhiiiiile, when you BUUUH-LIEEEEVE..." Thanks so much for your review as always! You're amazing!

Guest - You are SO welcome :)

curry-llama - oooh, zombie Peter. Nice idea. New AU fic? Haha. You should write it ;) Thanks for your review and message! You're the best! Happy reading :) (sorry for all the heart twisting!)

EleanorGardner - OMG I love you haha and I am so sorry I tortured you for so long, I hope this chapter was a nice taste in the void lol. Thank you so much as always you're wonderful


	26. Avenged

...

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - Avenged**

...

* * *

 **Favorite Things - Wade Wilson**

* * *

...

Alexander Pierce is under lock and key like a little bitch at the top of the Triskelion.

Can't say I'm not surprised, after all, what little he knows is that the Vulture was killed in the microprocessor ambush, and so he sent Brock Rumlow to the Tower to collect James Barnes. Now neither of them are answering his texts, calls, messages, facetiming, marco polos, snapchats, tweets, or DMs. There's needy bosses, and then there's Alexander Pierce. He looks like a cross between the neighbor that turns your grandmother into a horntoad and a future president. Those two things are not mutually exclusive.

For all Pierce knows, Rumlow and Barnes are totally off the grid, honeymooning in Jamaica.

So yeah, security is a little tight. Not unlike when this suit rides up on a hot day.

I wait patiently for the elevator to _DING_ merrily.

When the doors slide open, I stare at a hallway stuffed with uniformed men, all armed to the dick.

"Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for," I announce loudly. "Agents of Shield, I'm sure you're wondering why the Avenger with no moral compass is here right now. On a show of hands, which one of you is actually secretly a Hydra agent working the Pierce security detail with an order to shoot on sight?"

They all begin firing at once like it's the Third of May. I withdraw my double bladed swords from behind my back and begin twirling them like a pubescent majorette working batons in a parade. Bullets deflected make metallic screaming sounds as they ping back, some of them going right into the person who shot them. Several rounds tear right through me, the elevator doors, the wall behind me, through my limbs -

"Fucking hell that hurts! Shit! Cool it!" I keep advancing down the hall towards the door that leads to Pierce's office. "Oh, hey hey hey! OKAY! Geeze! I get it! Okay, here's a deal - keep shooting at me if you suffer regularly from rectal bleeding!"

BANG BANG BANG BANG -

"Jesus, _ALL of you?_ Like okay I thought maybe some of you but _seriously_ all of you? You need some SERIOUS, SERIOUS clinical help…"

Time to play dirty.

I twist under suddenly and drive the blade of one sword up into the susceptible ribs of the nearest agent, my other wrist twisting back to deflect the bullets aiming for my spine with the blade. It's truly amazing what CGI can accomplish nowadays.

The man keels over towards me, and I roll away from his falling body, sliding across the slick, faux-marble floor to kick out the ankle of the next agent. With a crack like breaking a really thick carrot, his leg gives out and he falls as screams in horror. I cut his gun right out of his hand and plunge the other blade through his chest, cutting off the screaming, and then rolling out of the way.

Bullets still pelt me from the back, like eating a bag of poprocks, except it feels more like bullets, and it's all over my entire body. I scramble to my feet, twirling my deadly baton swords again.

"And now let's bring in the dance team," I announce, running back crookedly to the men at the opposite end of the hall. Most of them are dressed like a strike team, all black, bulletproof outfits, heavy hardware, helmets with little flashlights attached to the side.

I whip my swords out on either side of me like unleashing a Falcon wingspan, my blades effectively beheading the two agents I'm running past. Then the last two get something a little more fancy, one gets a kick in the groin to go down first, the other gets a blade through the abdomen, and while the other one cries, I twist like a figure skater and swing the other blade across his neck. Boom, headshot.

I begin counting who is left in the lost language of ancient Latin.

"Uno, dos, tres, quatro…" I turn and made a speedy dash back down the hall, where the Agents have pushed back against Pierce's door, trying to effectively barricade it with themselves.

"Uno!" I cry out, one of them dropping his gun in favor of the little more hand-to-hand nonsense. My sword cuts off both hands like a boxer a little short on his assets, then I punch him and he falls back on his other assets. Dos launches himself for me, actually succeeds in knocking me backwards, but I flip him up and over my head so that he lands behind me in a heap of tangled arms, legs, and two hands without a body. I pinwheel on the floor like Donald O'Connor, sheathing one of my swords.

"Make 'em LAUGH, sick bastards," I sing loudly, running along the floor and driving my sword into the fallen as I spin by. Then I leap to my feet like a Scandinavian Olympian, cutting down Tres and blocking his gunfire with the blade, but then surprising him with my own gunfire. Right in the Schnoz. He's down, one more to go.

It's always the last one that puts up more of a fight than the others, and they always wait and try to attack you one at the time, because how else can you choreograph the fight scene?

If you make a list of every time this happens, you'll find that it happens every time.

Quatro makes two fists and test-punches the air with massive arms like he's trying out for the Mission Impossible press releases in a bathroom mirror.

"Oh we're going to play like this, are we?" I taunt. I sheath my other sword, holster my gun, hook my thumbs together, make a flapping butterfly motion. His eyes squint confusedly at me, and he flies towards me with a roar, but I was born ready.

I sidestep quickly, and he somehow expects this, shifting around and grabbing the back of my neck - and picking me up and throwing me over his head clear down the hallway.

Oh, and they saved the _enhanced being_ for last after all his mundies go down in glorious deaths. "This is completely typical and I'm adding this to my cliche list," I scream at him, slamming against the wall and going right through. There's an explosion of dust and drywall behind me into the hall. He should contribute to the trope jar.

"You owe me a dollar you sick, sick bastard!" I call out with a groan. My shoes squeak on the floor as I scramble out of the hole I just made, taking out more pieces of wall and knocking more plaster dust into my face as I struggle.

"Come on!" he taunts. "COME ON!"

"I never decline that type of invitation," I respond saucily, rushing back for him. I knock him off his feet and shove his head right through the wall. Bored with my own, I pummel him with one fist in his face, and then let my other hand sneak into his belt (whoa nelly) and withdraw his own special looking handgun, a small glock 26.

I shoot him all too easily in his foot, and he hollers loudly. He manages to get a hand around my throat, lifting me up into the air. So I shoot his other foot.

He goes down, dropping me, and I land right on him. Straddling him, really.

"I have one thing to say," I intone purrishly. " _Hay un gato en mis pantalones y no tengo miedo de hacerte cosquillas."_

"The hell?" he exclaims, and I punch him one more good time in the face and knock him unconscious. Maybe he doesn't have to die today. We'll leave one Hydra agent alive to tell my story.

I make a shivery _ick_ motion and get off of him quickly, brushing away at my suit as if lint and cat hair is my biggest worry.

"Bienvenidos, mother falcon," I say, thrusting my heel through the doorknob and kicking open the door so hard it flies back, detached from the wall, and lands with a crash on the floor in slow motion. Little clouds of white dust waft away like a spa room for El Chapo.

Alexander Pierce is braced against the window, a gun pointed in my direction.

"Oh no, oh god, oh GOD," I cry out. "Please don't shoot. PLEASE don't shoot me." I drop to my knees, holding my hands up defensively. Then quick as Thor taking a piss, I reach behind me for my sword.

He shoots, and the bullet careens right for my right eye socket, probably in slow motion. I imagine _We Are the World_ might be playing right about now if I hadn't left my ipod behind and the sound engineer hadn't peaced out really early on this project.

 _We are the woooorld,_

 _We are the childreeeeen…_

I block the shot easily with my sword, and it ricochets right back, plunging right through the muzzle from whence it came. With a cry, Pierce drops the gun, shaking out his hand painfully.

"Good morning, you sly son of a bitch," I greet him, sheathing my sword once more, and aiming just one gun for his chest.

Pierce has both of his hands up preemptively.  
"I need you to remember this line, otherwise when my jokes come full circle, they won't be funny anymore. Ready? Here's the line: don't move or I WILL kill you. And now I owe a dollar to the cliche jar. Since I had to use it on you, would you mind spotting me a dollar? Never mind, I'll just rifle through your wallet after you're dead."

"Wade," he answers slowly. "I know why you're here."

"It's chicken finger day in the Triskelion cafeteria. Always mysteriously placed right after someone finally bites the dust at that elderly care home down the street. Did you ever notice that? You say chicken, I say Maude."

"Wade!" Pierce says thickly. "Listen to me. I know you've been told about… about certain allegiances. They're not true. They're… they're all lies. I am _loyal_ to Shield. Loyal to this agency, to this country."

"Look. Pierce, I get it, you're scared of finally getting what you deserve," I say, "But I've GOT to get something off my chest. Do you remember that time someone brought a whoopie cushion to the Shield, UN, and Avengers Summit meeting? It wasn't me, but I know who did it. Whoo. That feels good to just - let it all out there. Let that breathe. Ugh, it was really weighing on me. Okay - next one - I just have to pick up where we left off about poetic justice."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, I should have been the one to kill Adrian Toomes. He threatened my Sugarbear. It would have been so much more spiritually satisfying. I would have loved to kill that slimy bastard. It makes way more cinematic sense for James Barnes to kill _you."_

"You've gone insane."

"Think about it, man. You've had your fingers tucked into his brain mush like forkless spaghetti for - how many years? Since you started? Even before you were leading here, someone else had their fingers inside him. I mean - well, not like you'd think. But you get it, right?"

"Whatever you heard, it's simply not true…"

"You had control over his mind, so it would be the best revenge story in the world for him to be able to separate your mind-holder from the rest of your body. But _naturally_ you probably told your own robot to Not Harm Master, so it falls to me. All the good ones fall to me."

"Wade, please. I know you think you have it all figured out. But you're wrong. If Barnes told you that I somehow had control over him - he's playing you."

"I can't be played," I answer stonily. "A musical instrument, I am not. Although please consider the likelihood of Deadpool 9 being some sort of musical version."

"Barnes is the best spy on this planet!" Pierce continues desperately. "He's playing you all. He's only doing that to manipulate you, to make you take out Shield agents - good agents - and me. If you do this, you become enemies of the state. The Avengers are over. The world turns against you. If you aren't imprisoned in the icebox, then…"

"No, done already, and it would be a total rip off. Barnes may be a lot of things, but he's the most honest liar I've ever met. And we don't _have_ to believe him, really, do we?"

"So - what?" Pierce gasps. "You're just looking for an excuse to come up here and murder me and my men? Even for you, Wade, that's unlikely…"

"Steve Rogers trusted good ol' Uncle Buck. And that's fucking good enough for us. If Barnes says that you're the bastard that cooked up his dream juices and made him murder people, than, by the power vested in me by Paul Wernick and Rhett Reese, I will do something very, very terrible."

"Wade, I am begging you," Pierce truly looks contrite, yet somehow totally condescending, like every teacher I've ever had. They only wanted to give me homework to see the joy of life leave my eyes. "I have family. A granddaughter that I love, very, very dearly."

"Listen, dickbreath, Captain Fucking America had a girlfriend that he loved very, very dearly. He had family too, I mean, not related ones, and certainly not legally adopted. We're the fucking island of misfit toys and you don't just take away the water gun that shoots jelly because you fucking feel like it."

"I didn't kill Captain America. He was a hero, a friend…"

"Not today, Satan." I hold up a hand. "We tracked Vulture's sales, you idiot. You were his number one client. Pretending to off load the purchases to a storage facility when they were being partitioned out to your favorite hounds. Or, in this case, weirdly tall sociopaths with Hydra loyalties planted in Shield."

He looks bewildered and dizzy. "I don't… know… who, or what, you're even talking about."

"Grant Ward," I answer. "He's stinking up a basement somewhere. Why? Didn't you realize he was missing? Haven't you heard from him lately?" I grin cattily. "You're deflecting. Why don't you call him up?"

Silence. He doesn't answer, but a vein begins to bulge at his neck. "I'm sure when Grant Ward resurfaces and reports to Nick Fury, I will receive a written report on my desk as usual," he finally says, coldly and professionally. "Wade. Please. See reason."

"Well, woops, not quite done yet, Nipple Piercing. I have one more confession. I didn't get enough screen time and I am sure as hell making up for it now. I stole your fucking code."

Silence.

Pierce blanches, and the facade of a scared old man cracks. He frowns, and his chin appears to clench, his jaw tightening. "What code?" he asks.

"Project insight, jackass. Project insight has been in my hindsight this entire time. I knew that something like that in your hands would probably mean way too much death on a global scale, like, even more death than I'm comfortable with, I mean we're talking like a world-wide dusting worse than every other dusting. I fucking stole the code. Those microprocessors combined with the code would be death on an apocalyptic terrorism scale. I was not about to have that, so, I took it, so that I could have that."

"You stole the codes for project insight," Pierce repeats, still trying to wrap his head around it. "You've had them _this whole time?"_

"Of course I did. Didn't ANYONE notice how weird I was acting when Steve and I met our informant at Roosevelt ferry and Steve starts telling him about the missing codes? I made a ridiculous amount of effort to tell them to just quit worrying about it… I literally told them that I _had it._ It went right over their heads."

"I wasn't privy to this meeting you speak of," Pierce replies confusedly. "I wouldn't know what happened! But why would you betray Shield? Stealing a valuable asset such as Project Insight?"

"It was up to ME to make the world a little safer - DAMNIT! That's another FUCKING DOLLAR IN THE JAR!" I slap myself hard in the face, and then take another step closer, really brandishing the gun to get my point across.

Pierce's eyes go wide with fear again.

"That was a bad line," I say, "Ask me why I stole the code." I tilt the gun like a gangster. "Ask me WHY I STOLE the CODE."

Pierce's jaw trembles. "Wh… why?"

"Because shit needs a storm, and I like to fuck shit up." I nod. "That sounds better, doesn't it? More in character? No, no, I think I can do one better. I got it this time. Take three. Say it again."

"I'm not playing this game, Wade," Pierce breathes heavily, his veins popping out in his forehead and neck. If I don't hurry up, he might have a stroke before I actually get to kill him. "You don't know _anything._ Heard anything from your informant lately? Huh?"

"Scuse me?" I ask, faking an ear dig to clear it out my hearing. "Say what about an informant?"

"Well," Pierce gives me a smile, "You haven't heard anything from him. Not directly."

"Right now on a relevance scale, you're somewhere between a sequel to Eragon and the other two Schuyler sisters. Yeah, surprised? Thought so. There was _five_ of them."

"You're deflecting." Pierce smiles, making my own words come back to haunt me. "Why don't you call him up?"

I clench my jaw. _Don't let him get to you don't let him get to you this is what he does…_

"I'd sooner call up your granddaughter and let you facetime to say goodbye," I say darkly. "And that, my friend, leaves the DC universe behind and goes straight to Netflix streaming. I'm talking fucking dark, buddy. I'll go dark if you want to play."

"If you're going to kill me anyway you might as well know," Pierce says. "Rumlow was sent for Barnes _and_ Parker. For all I know he was successful. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

I stare at him for a moment in silence. Like I forgot how to use my mouth.

"Your informant is dead."

He's smiling.

This fucker actually thinks Peter Parker is dead.

Tony Stark said that Rumlow was there, this morning, to extract Barnes. What if he's right, and Rumlow wasn't just there to extract him - he was there to kill Peter Parker too?

There is an uncomfortable gap of time here.

Between Peter turning on Vulture during the microprocessor sale. Fighting. Grant Ward fleeing the scene and when I caught up to him...

He could have called Pierce in the meantime and told him who it was.

"Is that what Grant Ward told you before I caught up with him?" I ask, deadly quiet. "Outed my informant? Gave you a name and a face so that Rumlow could hunt him down?"

Pierce would shrug, but I had told him not to move. He's still smiling.

Tony's hesitation…

 _He's here. We need to have a serious talk when you get back._

I don't do serious.

I don't FUCKING do serious.

Not if someone fucking hurts a kid. That's when I stop doing serious and I start doing real murder.

 _Nobody hurts my kid._

"It's cute when you try to tell me secrets," I say, after just a second of hesitation far too long. I feel the smile leave my voice, the higher affectations disappearing. "Ask me WHY again," I growl, no ounce of humor for this. "SAY IT."

Pierce's smile disappears, and he keeps his mouth shut, working his tongue over his teeth, containing his rage.

"Do you want to live?" I ask simply. "Ask me why. Once more. For posterity."

Pierce loses that last piece of desperate bravery, a shadow passing over his eyes. Thinking he could goad me into interrogating, instead of killing. Offering me a tidbit of information to see if I'll bite. I have other things I prefer biting.

"Why?" he asks gruffly.

I start to answer. "It's because of the…"

Dramatic pause.

I look over Pierce's shoulder, the white lenses in my mask widening hugely with a horrified expression, looking out at the completely empty view of the D.C. skyline behind him.

"Holy SHIT!" I exclaim with unparalleled fear. "Is that…? It… It CAN'T be…? Cap?"

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO...

Pierce flinches naturally and jerks his head, looking over his shoulder at the window behind him. He barely has time to register that there's nothing actually there, and turn to look back at me with confusion.

I squeeze the trigger.

 _BANG!_

Alexander Pierce goes down like a piano on a comedian, limbs splayed and head knocking into the floor. It takes half a second for confirming his death, as there is no feasible comic book recovery that could bring him back from this. Rule of zombieland - always double tap.

"Told you not to move," I say smugly.

I double tap.

BANG, BANG.

Didn't this exact thing just happen with Grant Ward? Is it really so hard to ask for content that isn't totally repetitive and making use of the same things over and over again?

I've got one reminder; other endings aren't this generous. Usually _everyone_ dies. Scorsese takes a few names and then kills the rest. So unless everyone wants to attend a funeral for literally every hero that they know and love, then I suggest they take the next baby steps with care. STDs are contagious, but so is gratitude.

I'm more than grateful to be the concluding voice for this mission report.

I look down at the body. "Consider my partners fucking avenged."

….

* * *

 **I'm Still Here - _Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

I gasp loudly and sit up with a sudden jerk, as if my body had been electrocuted. Struggling and wrestling with a white sheet, I jerk it away from my face and push it off of me.

I lean off a table and dry heave over the side.

"What - what - what the _hell,"_ I groan loudly, shifting back onto the table and falling back, suddenly exhausted by what little movement I exerted. My chest rises and falls in such rapid movement I still can't quite catch my breath. I press a hand to my sternum and try to count each breath. One, two, three, four…

The last thing I remember…

Bucky promising to kill me. We were fighting, I was definitely going to take him down. I mean - maybe I overestimated myself. I really thought I was winning.

I brace myself up on my elbows. Looking at the room I'm in.

"Oh shit," I whisper. My throat hurts really bad. "I didn't win. _I definitely_ didn't win." There's like, steel appliances or something, but, I'm definitely not in a kitchen.

I think I'm in a… a morgue…?

I glance over to my right.

There's a body beneath a sheet on the table next me.

"HOLY SHIT!" I scream, throwing myself off the table. I land with a painful grunt on the floor, like a cat on all fours. My feet skid on the slick floor as I scuttle to my feet and brace myself on a counter, breathing hard.

There's blood all over the sheets. The sheets that _I_ just vacated. Oh god, _what?_

I look down at what I'm wearing. I'm still in the sweatpants and T-shirt. The hoodie is… gone. So are the shoes. And socks. I'm barefoot.

It's like someone partially undressed me while I was asleep? Why the hell would they do that unless it's like a hospital and they have to, like, cut your clothes off...

In a panic, I feel my chest, arms, legs, face.

There's dried blood on my forehead and on the back of my head, and it feels sore. Sore and dried blood with absolutely no sign of actual injury. So is it someone else's blood?

But if I had someone else's blood on me - WHY WOULD THEY PUT ME IN A MORGUE?

And under a sheet?!

Maybe it's a joke. A really _bad_ joke. Someone put us in here.

Maybe… maybe Wade Wilson thought it was funny. It seems like something he'd do.

"Hello?" I call out quietly. "Are you… you asleep too?"

I creep crookedly forward to the other table and lift the edge of the sheet -

There's a dead man underneath. _Very_ very obviously dead.

"OH NO, NO NO NO," I fall backwards, running into the table behind me, spinning away from it quickly. It knocks over a tray of sharp-looking tools and instruments off an overbed table on wheels.

CRASH!

It clatters on the hard floor like someone turned the open cupboards of a kitchen upside down and dumped all the contents.

I jump so high that my hands naturally find themselves moving hand over hand, instinctively, till I'm clinging to the ceiling like a scared cat.

"I'm in a morgue," I say out loud. "I'm in a MORGUE!"

Suddenly the large door slides open. A girl with dark hair and glasses walks in very, very slowly, sneaking. She looks down at the floor where the tray is knocked over, all the sharp tools spread across the floor. She looks at the table with the bloodied sheets askew.

The other body, lays perfectly still, still definitely dead.

I can actually _hear_ her heart beating very, very rapidly. Call it spider-sense or enhanced capabilities, but I can feel quailing terror rolling off of her like an icy-cold scent.

"Jesus Christ," she says, and crosses herself quickly.

"Who are you?" I call down.

I've never heard anyone scream so loudly before in my life.

It's truly impressive. I'm surprised the glass in the room doesn't shatter.

She screams, and screams, twisting around, looking wildly around the room, and then jerks her chin up and sees me clinging to the ceiling. Her scream continues, jumping a few octaves in pitch and growing even more horrified.

She's out of the morgue faster than I've ever seen a non-enhanced person move.

"Wait!" I call down, unsticking my hands and dropping down to the floor. A wave of dizziness washes over me from my scalp to my empty, churning stomach. I steady myself on the steel closet, taking deep, shuddering, cleansing breaths.

Then I look at the shape of the body under the sheet. What if were to, suddenly sit up? Like I did?

"Wait for me, please!" I call out, stumbling crookedly out after her. There's a big sliding door, sort of like a blast door in Star Wars.

"Uh, uh, OPEN!" I command. Nothing. I hit a large green button on a keypad beside the frame and it slides open. It even _sounds_ like a Star Wars door. Probably should have tried the button first.

"Whoa," I gasp, stepping through quickly. I feel sort of funny, buzzing and drunk in my arms, lead-lined and heavy in my legs. My head feels like it's been pumped full of helium, and my eye sockets are sore as if I stared into the sun for too long.

I hear the girl running down the hallway, still screaming, but she's forming words now. "ANYONE!" She's screaming. "THE CORPSE IS NOT A CORPSE! HELLO! SOMEONE! IT'S ALIVE! YOU ASSHOLES PUT A LIVE PERSON IN THERE! HELLO? IT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!"

I nearly laugh. "Hello?! Wait? Ma'am? Please!"

Suddenly an alarm goes off so loudly I duck and clap my hands over my ears. Above, small white lights begin to flash, and the siren-sound echoes in a rhythmic _bwooooop, bwoooooooop…_

Fire alarm? There's seriously a FIRE right now?!

And where the hell is Bucky Barnes?! He admitted to being Hydra, after all… I have to find him. Time to finish this fight!

I tip over and faceplant into the carpet.

"Ugh," I groan. "Okay. Okay. Maybe… maybe… in a moment." I brace my elbows into the floor and struggle to my feet, entirely top heavy. Hands pressed against the side of my head, I walk around the corner of the hall. I must have made a wrong turn somewhere, trying to follow the voice of the girl running away.

I enter a wider hallway. Tall, clean windows letting the sunrise in, lighting huge orange patches of warmth on the tiled floor.

Wait… sunrise. Okay. If I haven't been in like - some sort of freaky coma for eighteen years or something - it means that it's only been a few hours. I was probably just unconscious.

 _Or dead,_ my brain offers.

No, no way. I had to have passed out for only a few hours. The blood on my head is mostly dry, a little tacky. If it's mine or someone else's - Bucky's, maybe - then it's from just a few short hours ago.

"Hello?" I call again. Nothing. Can't hear the girl anymore, either.

Along my right, there's a few elevators, and a few more turns in other directions. The room has a sleepy, calming feeling… like it should be a hospital waiting room for a maternity wing or something way more hopeful and nice and _alive_.

I am so turned around. This place is _huge._ Based on the view from the window, I'm on the other side of the building than where the offices are. Where… where Bucky Barnes and I literally just beat the crap out of each other.

A pair of double doors burst open at the end, and the girl from the morgue points at me with a shaking hand. "I fucking TOLD you!" She screams over the alarm. Then she immediately steps out of the doors again, bumping into several moving bodies, hiding behind the door frame from me. "YOU handle it!" I can hear her shouting back down the hall. "You gave me a LIVE body, you bastards!"

Staring at me, open-mouthed, is none other than Tony Stark. He's flanked by the other Avengers - some of them, anyway. Dr. Banner, Black Widow, Captain Rhodes, and the Falcon.

It was one thing fighting side by side with them while running around like a pretend-crazy criminal with shifting loyalties, in the dark by the logging company, trying to nab the bad guys and steal the briefcase… but then there was watching the Vulture die and then getting attacked by Bucky later… I didn't even have time to process that I had actually _met_ most of my heroes, and not only was able to meet them, but I would get to _join_ them, too.

Only I never got to meet Dr. Banner.

I almost forget everything else except

 _Holy shit that's Dr. Bruce Banner...Holy shit that's DOCTOR BRUCE BANNER…_

Rhodes reaches over and plunges his fist right through the controls for the fire alarm. The siren instantly stops and the lights stop flashing. Then he looks at his fist in surprise. "Oops," he mumbles.

"Kid," Mr. Stark takes a step forward.

"He-Ee-y," I say confusedly.

"What in the hell!" Falcon exclaims loudly. "You were… we were…"

Mr. Stark holds out his hands, as if I'm one step shy of falling off a building by accident and he doesn't want to startle me. "What are…" he starts. "You're…"

"So am I dead?" I ask confusedly. "I woke up in a morgue. And that was… well, I'm kind of freaking out right now. Hey, uh, Dr. Banner," I wave awkwardly. "Big… big fan. Really… really love your study on the effect of gamma radiation versus vita radiation on bacteria. Really… really cool. I'm saying _really_ a lot. Sorry."

"Thank you?" Dr. Banner replies slowly. "Believe me, I'm, I'm flattered, but… " he turns to Mr. Stark and whispers urgently. "We need to get him to the medical wing _now."_

"Not a morgue this time!" I say in a shrieky tone. Like I'm freaking out too much and my defense mechanisms are trying to make a joke. "So you, uh, you probably won't believe me, but, Bucky Barnes attacked me, and said he was going to kill me, and that he was working for the bad guys this whole time - OH, and I was supposed to tell you, John Garrett from Shield? He's Hydra! They said his name at the drop before you guys… oh, I guess you were there in hiding the whole time, huh? But did you have AUDIO surveillance? If you didn't, you need to know that. Garrett. He's one of the Nazi guys. OH, and I have names of the rest of the Vulture crew that wasn't there, a lot of them - can I call my aunt? I should probably tell Aunt May that I'm back now... I forgot…"

"Kid, zip - zip it for, a second," Tony makes a zipper motion with one hand. "You're… you were dead. You _were_ dead." He takes a few steps closer. "Do you - do you feel okay?"

"I feel like I have a flu or something," I say confusedly. "How dead? Like dead dead?"

Mr. Stark opens his mouth.

"Tony," Dr. Banner warns. "Not another _word."_

"I'll… I'll track down and call your aunt," says Black Widow. "You… you don't worry about her. We'll bring her here. Okay?"

"Okay… um, wow, thanks, thank you!" I call after her. She shares a weird look with Dr. Banner, before turning and walking stiffly down the hall, holding a hand to her side. "Is Bucky okay?" I ask. "There was something _seriously_ wrong with him. I mean, he attacked me, so… _that's_ a problem… but… there was something else going on too."

Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner exchange a look. So do Rhodes and the Falcon.

"I'm… I'm going to go call in the rest of the nursing staff and ask them to _please_ get in early," Rhodes suddenly waves awkwardly and makes a graceful exit out the door they came from.

"Someone already called the…" Bruce Banner begins, but the door swings shut behind him. "Hours ago," he adds unnecessarily.

"Why don't you… uh… sit down, over here," Falcon points at a bench along the hall wall beneath the wide windows. "I'm going to go find a stretcher."

I don't move. Falcon - Sam, I think his name is… goes out one of the doors on my right.

"Okay so if people can, like, come back from the dead now… how come I'm here?" I ask hazily, "And Captain America isn't? He's way more enhanced than me, right? I shouldn't be here."

Mr. Stark looks like he's had zero sleep in weeks, a few recent shots of scotch. His eyebrows are furrowed and his frown-wrinkles are deep. "Don't think like that," he says calmly, walking towards me and slowly putting a hand on each shoulder. "I'm sure we'll be able to find out what happened. In due time. But don't think like that now. We're just going to focus on making sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," I say shortly.

"Bullshit," Stark says. "You've been working for Steve… and with the _worst_ criminals in this city, for a long time. It's okay to not be okay. But it will be. Why don't we sit over here till Sam gets back?"

I let him push me in the direction of the bench, which I sit on reluctantly. There's still too much I'm confused about…

"He fell off the building," I whisper. "After they shot him."

"I… I know."

"I couldn't catch him. _I couldn't catch him._ I couldn't…"

"It's going to be okay, Peter," says Mr. Stark.

 _It's going to be okay, Peter,_ one of Steve's last words to me. _If he poses any danger to you, we'll try another…_

I blink rapidly, losing my train of thought. "...he's probably going to… to… hmmmmm..."

I slowly slide off the bench.

"Oh shit," Mr. Stark jams his arm forward, doesn't quite make it.

The carpet around me turns into a giant blanket, the folds lifting up and over my head, caccooning me in a warm, dark tunnel. I feel arms around me, falling with me to the floor and keeping a wide hand between the back of my skull and hitting the floor.

"I've got you, I've got you," says Mr. Stark.

Stars blink out and glisten behind my eyelids, turning red and orange like bursting fireworks. It hurts, like a migraine.

 _He's not dead._

 _He's not dead._

 _He's not dead._

I can still hear Uncle Ben's heartbeat.

I rip the layers of his jacket aside, looking for the wound. I press one hand against the entry where blood is spooling out rhythmically. My hand won't stay, it keeps slipping away from where it needs the most pressure. I rip off my outer plaid shirt, wadding it up with trembling hands, shoving it against the wound.

All too quickly it becomes drenched with scarlet.

No, no no no no…

He's losing blood too fast.

This isn't happening. This isn't real.

"Uncle Ben," I say loudly, bending low over him. "Can you hear me? I need you to stay awake - do you hear me? Stay awake!"

Uncle Ben's eyes drift lazily open, looking confused, unfocused. "Peter," he says, and a wet cough erupts, a drizzle of blood bursting at his lips and trailing down his cheek.

"No, no, no," I sob, trying to wipe the blood away from his mouth. "Uncle Ben - Don't leave me alone! Please don't leave me alone! Please… don't… I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."

"Peter?" Uncle Ben repeats. "This wasn't your fault… do you hear me? Nothing - none of this was your fault. _It's going to be okay, Peter…_ it's going to..."

Another horrible heaving of breath, rattling up his lungs and out of his mouth with more blood.

Then nothing. There is no second inhale.

"NO!" I scream at his face. "No - no - no! Don't go! Please don't go, please don't go, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Someone sticks their hands beneath my armpits and hauls me off of him, pulling me into an unwanted embrace. Paramedics swarm the space, the uniforms surrounding him with tools and lights curling in and out of my vision with glaring red and blue, a siren wailing, wailing, wailing…

I struggle from the arms of the person holding me, but they don't let go. They _won't_ let me go.

"It's okay, it's okay," says the voice. "I've got you. I've got you."

"My fault," I had screamed into the chest of the policeman holding me upright. "My fault, my fault, my fault… it should have been me, it should have been me..."

"Not your fault. Don't you think that. Not for a second. Just let it out, son. I've got you. Not letting you go."

He holds me with a firm, even painful, grip. The more I try to push away to return to Uncle Ben's side, the stronger he seems - but he's not strong at all. He's totally normal. He's not enhanced. I'm not fighting him that hard. I try to push away, realizing somewhere in my logical, unaffected mind still seeing, hearing, perceiving everything, that he's not the policeman that had pulled me away from Uncle Ben's body. And it's not four years ago.

I open my eyes. Mr. Stark is holding onto me with both arms, and we're both sitting on the floor. My legs and arms are sprawled out loosely, weighing a million pounds each. Mr. Stark has one elbow braced under my neck, and one hand is feeling my neck, forehead, and hair. Looking for injuries that aren't there, I realize.

Dr. Banner is kneeling beside me too, I realize. "Welcome back, kid," he mutters.

"Did I die again? Seriously?" I mutter.

"Not this time, and you were only out for a few seconds," Mr. Stark answers. "Jesus Christ, kid. You just about gave me a heart attack."

"M'really sorry," I mumble, embarrassed.

What if I had _said_ anything - about Uncle Ben...

"Don't be sorry," Mr. Stark pulls back for a moment and holds my gaze firmly. "Don't be sorry. Not now, not ever." He looks over my shoulder at Dr. Banner, and then pulls me in for another hug, loosely patting my back like an old, tired dad with a moody child.

Something that was broken long, long ago has had the time it needed. Building up scar tissue, maybe. It makes it easier to feel the grief, let it run its course, and then open the floodgate. It leaves me in a rush, leaving me empty… relieved.

And not alone.

 _It should have been me,_ I had thought, when Captain America died. But… maybe that's not true. At all.

The difference between the moment Steve fell from the roof, and now. When Uncle Ben was shot, unknowingly setting me on the course that led me here... I had never felt so lost and alone then. It was a feeling that kept showing up on repeat, again and again. When Agent Parsons was shot by Jackson. When Captain America fell. Jackson Brice, even. Aaron Davis. Those moments of feeling like death itself was comparable to how alone I felt. Maybe I even wished for it myself - maybe never out loud, maybe self consciously. It was wrong then, and I can't believe I'm only seeing that now.

I'm in Avengers Tower. I was supposedly shot in the head and _didn't die._ I'm walking, talking, crying. I've never felt more relieved to not be dead.

Even after post-traumatic flashback while unconscious, I feel completely safe.

Steve had always said _be patient._ I guess I was supposed to be patient for this.

In a few hours I'll probably be told why my super-spider-healing and unknown miraculous factors contributed to my being alive by some fancy doctor. I'll explain what I know about Bucky, so that maybe something miraculous can happen to him to, and he'll be okay. I can actually process meeting and fighting beside my heroes. I'll sleep in a real bed.

I'll run across the atrium and throw myself into Aunt May's arms when she arrives, and we'll both cry because that's what we do. I'll call Ned and I'll finally get to tell him what happened. I'll call Michelle, ask her out on a real, real date. Like dinner. And a movie. Nothing violent. Probably something with singing and dancing, if she's into that kind of thing. I don't actually know. I can't wait to find out.

I have… I have things to look forward to. For awhile I thought it was just going to be getting through this mission so that I can sign the Accords and be Spiderman again and swing through the city and do Avengery things. It's more than that. It's all of that. And having my identity back. My life.

"You doing okay, kiddo?" Dr. Banner asks. "You're not passing out on us again, are ya?"

"No," I say in a muffled voice.

"Any idea how… how…" Mr. Stark says. "Resurrection is a pretty rare talent."

"I don't know," I say tiredly, taking a deep breath.

"I have… a theory," Dr. Banner says. "No - no. Not a theory. A suspicion. A nearly-certain suspicion."

"Care to elaborate?" Mr. Stark asks.

"Not here," Dr. Banner replies quickly. "I'll tell you later." He looks down at me and pats my leg hesitantly. "Someone was looking out for you."

"Like… who?" I ask confusedly.

Dr. Banner just shakes his head, picks up my wrist, and feels my pulse. "I dunno," he mutters. "Maybe an angel."

Mr. Stark rolls his eyes.

Maybe all of this… the mission… maybe that was a bad choice. Not the wrong one, but a bad one. That doesn't mean it wasn't right.

We shouldn't have done it like this, we should have done things differently, I should have just taken that train to the Tower, dealt with the fall out, instead of an elaborately staged pick up. Shouldn't have left Michelle or my Aunt hanging. I should have called 911 for Aaron Davis.

"Hey. Pal. Look up here for a second."

My head shifts heavily, leaning back on Mr. Stark's arm and looking up at his concerned face. "Yeah?" I ask.

"I appreciate you trying to give us intel," he says slowly. "But you need to know that you can explain whatever you want _later."_

"What if…"

"Nope, nada, zilch," Mr. Stark makes a face I dare not protest to. "I have only one focus right now and that's making sure I don't have another dead kid on my hands. Once is enough."

I nod. "Oh. Sure. Okay."

"Bucky Barnes is in lockdown right now," he says. "You're safe from him."

"I don't know if _he's_ safe from him," I say sleepily. "There's a thumb drive. I had it on me, but it's gone, I don't know…"

"Did you hear a word I just said? You are benched, kiddo," Mr. Stark says. "No - amendment. You know who is benched? Peter Parker, the undercover. He's benched forever. In fact I'm firing him."

I shift slightly. "Ooookay…?"

"You, my friend, are getting a second chance," Mr. Stark says. "A reboot. Peter Parker, intern. Nephew to May Parker. Sound good so far?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're part time Avenger, part time intern, full time teenager… er… young adult. College too, if you want."

I feel my eyes get big. "Are you trying to make me pass out again?"

"Maybe let's not overwhelm him too much right off," Dr. Banner says.

"I'm just trying to say," Mr. Stark says, "Your undercover work is _done, benched._ You, young one, are going to be working in a safe lab environment with safety goggles and closed-toed shoes for the foreseeable future."

There's a lot of things I should have done differently. There's no way to make that determination now… if it was the right choice, to try and be a hero like this, or if it was a mistake.

"That sounds really… really good," I say shyly. This is my second chance.

Maybe it _was_ a mistake, but I'm not.

 _I'm_ not.

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT: It's not easy getting back to a normal life, and there's nothing normal about a funeral service for the world's favorite hero.**

* * *

 **REVIEWER REPLIES**

Tony Stank - Haha I hope it was worth the wait ;)

Sakura-Fiction - I know this wasn't very lighthearted but HEY! he's BACK! I'm forgiven! woohoo! :D

purpleflame2 - HAHA thank you SO much your story made me smile so big

Starnight5 - lol I am glad you are feeling conflicted about Bucky. BUCKY is feeling conflicted about Bucky. Haha :D

Tightpants182 - Ehhh don't worry Tony is fine lol XD glad you enjoyed!

cargumentluv - shortest chapter ever, I know lol. Sorry XD

DaWriter06 - Here you go, friend! hehehe! hope you enjoyed

EleanorGardner - Happy Wednesday! :D thanks for reading!

LoonyLovegood1981 - I too am totally a pacifist but MAN I write a lot of violence, you'd never be able to tell! XD In person I'm very

curry-llama - you're certainly right about that! DP totes lost his shit, lol. :D


	27. The Funeral

...

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - The Funeral**

...

...

* * *

 **Shots -** _**Wanda Maximoff**_

* * *

…

I've seen many kinds of grief. Losing a parent, losing a home. Spouses, family. A country. I've endured grief in all of it's forms.

Today, I put my own aside to observe.

Cypress Hills Cemetery is reserved for veterans, enclosed behind iron gates on green lawns. Trees flutter in the breezy afternoon.

The sun is shining down on Brooklyn, which I understand is Steve's hometown. Or his _borough_ as the locals call it. It's fitting, a deserved resting place.

He didn't deserve to die, but he deserves to lie in peace.

Vision holds my hand during the service. It's his first time doing this publically. I wish the appearance of us was not as foreign as it looks. Strangely unnatural to a casual observer.

But I hold his hand so tightly, I feel my skin redden, nearly bruising. Services like this are not easy for me, never while be.

Thank God it's not indoors. I could not stand to be in the shadows right now, a roof low over my head. I find that closed rooms trigger an unnatural, panicked response in my gut. It was not good for me to be alone; myself less so than Sharon Carter.

It helps that Natasha insisted on driving myself, Sharon, and Maria Hill. We're not the usual pairing; but life sometimes craves sisterhood. Natasha and Maria seemed to know this instinctively. Sharon and I are not so familiar.

We needed others to be close, women stronger than we felt. Maria was the first to volunteer to stay at Sharon's side during the funeral. Natasha suggested picking them up. Then she looked at me.

"What do you say, Scarlet?" she had said, a sort of smirk on her face. "Do you like a good carpool?"

"As long as he is not related to Deadpool," I had replied with a sigh.

That's how I found myself in an unusual group; gently refusing Vision's multiple offers to _fly_ me to the funeral by carrying me. I would imagine flying to the cemetery would be one of the worst ways to arrive.

When Natasha parked the car, I put my hand on the door handle.

"Wait," she said, and then she pulled out a large glass bottle from under the seat. "Liquid courage, anyone?"

No one protested, only nodded with sighs of relieved resignation.

"I don't support the idea of numbing our emotions with alcohol," Maria said in that dry tone of hers, knocking back her third shot.

None of us did a third, which she quickly realized. "Today being the exception," she added. Then she rubbed Sharon's shoulder, squeezing it tightly.

Sharon swallowed thickly. "I'm fine," she said quietly.

Natasha's eyes roved over her, expertly. "Don't lie," she said lightly. "None of us are. And that's okay."

I realized how much I had been missing something like this till today - the idea of sisters. I had only had my brother, and then when he passed away, I exchanged the need for what he fulfilled to the idea of a _team,_ of _more_ brothers, Natasha herself included. There was very little femininity about our relationship. The Avengers felt like brothers… or _brethren_. Gender neutral.

But as the four of us exited the car, I felt a hand grip mine, before letting go quickly. Sharon was giving me a nod, permission to meet Vision, who stood at the edge of the parking lot. He was waiting for me, lifting his hand in a polite greeting without waving.

There's room for love in my heart, love that I didn't think could happen to me - much less with a person created, instead of born.

But there's something else, too, a feeling of mutual understanding with these women. I'm more than relieved to have them at my side. I did not know what I was missing before.

I wonder if Rogers had involved us more early-on with his projects, would we be here today? Sharon wasn't told enough to begin with, in order to be aware enough to _interfere._ He was keeping secrets from her.

A small part of my brain will bitterly ask; if he had involved more of us - _any, or all of us -_ in his decisions with undercover work, would things have gone the same? Not simply because we bring different perspectives to the table, but because that's why we are here. That's why we form the Avengers.

Maybe nothing would have changed, and we would have gotten the same results, but, at least we'd know. Maybe if he had been more open, he would have had his team behind him.

He wouldn't have been on that rooftop, and falling alone.

No one should be alone.

I'm angry, and hurting. But I resign to it calmly.

Like pain, it will pass. Everything does. _Everyone_ does.

…

* * *

 **New Normal -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

...

Aunt May pulls up to a stop light. There's a man standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross. He looks at her through the window. He doesn't smile, he just stands there, focused on her. He doesn't look like… a carjacker or anything. He doesn't look like anyone on the Vulture's crew.

But my Spider-senses are going crazy…

I reach over and slam my hand so hard on the door lock that the plastic button covering snaps off and flies towards Aunt May's lap.

She jumps a little and squeaks. "What the…" she looks down, and looks up at me. "What was that?"

"I broke the plastic thingy here… sorry. I'll fix it."

Aunt May's eyes drift past me and look at the man on the sidewalk. "Do you know him?"

I pause. "No."

She pats my knee, says nothing.

The light turns green and the car slides forward. I watch the man in the side mirror as we cruise through the traffic. He watches us, too.

Those weren't Spider-senses, I realize. I'm paranoid, and I know I am. Jumpy is the easy word for it. Post traumatic stress disorder is the harder phrase to swallow.

I turn and look at Aunt May. It's hard to believe she's here in the car with me. There was a part of me that thought - even though I was done, I was safe, I was retired from undercover work, I was living in Avengers Tower for crying out loud… I thought I'd never see her again. I thought I was unlucky.

Maybe she would get a ride from the safe house into town, and we'd rush to greet each other in the spacious lobby, but as soon as my arms wrapped around her, I'd hear a gunshot ring out - I'd hear it, loud and clear - and she would turn to lead in my arms, heavier than even I could hold. She'd fall down and I'd fall with her, blood everywhere, and there would be someone left, someone they forgot to track down… like Murphy. Standing with a smoking gun.

But nothing happened.

When she saw me, and I saw her, _nothing_ happened except for the tearful embrace that seemed to last for an hour. And suddenly I felt myself taken back to the moment I could have changed my mind - sitting in the kitchen eating pasta with Scott Lang, Luis, and May. That had been the last time I had seen her. Before I had truly known what I was getting myself into.

"What are you staring at?" May asks self-consciously.

"I didn't mean to stare, sorry. I'm just happy you're here."

She gives me a scoff of pleasant surprise. "Who, me?"

"Yeah."

She smiles. "I'm happy _you're_ here."

 _I'm happy you're here._

This time, they didn't let me sneak my way out of anything. After I received a check up from their newly-arrived resident doctor, who had forgotten to change out of his bedroom slippers, they posted Vision in my hospital room to watch over me. He sat calmly in a chair in the corner. He was dressed down in a black turtleneck and dark pants and shoes, reading a newspaper. He knew just how to keep me distracted from the fact that I had just been shot in the head and somehow lived through it. Sometimes he'd make idle conversation, but never in an annoying way.

The doctor couldn't tell me how it happened, he confusedly cited unknown factors due to my rapid healing capabilities, despite a bullet hole in my head, miraculously _disappearing_.

 _A bullet hole._

He couldn't explain how my skull had knit itself back together, no matter how many times Tony Stark tried to bully an answer out of him.

Finally, Dr. Banner had pulled him aside, speaking in low, urgent tones.

"What?" Mr. Stark snapped. "What do you mean _she had a thing?"_

Glancing over at me, and seeing my wide-open eyes of interest from the hospital bed, Dr. Banner tugged Mr. Stark's elbow sharply, guiding him into the hallway, shutting the door.

I threw my legs over the side and waddled carefully towards the door, dragging an IV behind me, pressing my ear against the wood to listen in.

Vision cleared his throat lightly, and turned the page of his newspaper. Saying nothing - in fact, he pretended not to notice I was listening in at all.

"Nat had a… a serum," Dr. Banner said tiredly."I was an idiot to assume this was all hypothetical. She managed to get in with the yahoos that made our super bouncing-back friend Deadpool."

"You mean that shit can be _replicated?"_

"Not easily, and she only got enough that was supposed to do… um… major structure repair. Bones and organs."

"Well, a brain is an organ," Mr. Stark quipped. "And his skull looks a _little_ better."

There was a pause. I can only assume Dr. Banner glared at him.

"...and you know that already," Mr. Stark added. "But why the hell was Natasha getting this stuff?"

"I'm not in a position to betray her trust. And maybe the reason is irrelevant to _you."_

"That may be. But you're telling me she snuck in there after he died, injected him with some magical Deadpool serum, and it brought him back to life?"

"That's the part I don't get," Dr. Banner sighed. "Short version, only part of that would work. It shouldn't restart a _life._ The heart and the nervous system, for instance. It might fix the fact that part of his head needed to be _regrown._ The brain damage and skull alone."

I gagged several times against the door.

 _YIKES. GROSS._

"So what else could it be?" Mr. Stark continued. "I mean, we both know he's enhanced…"

Dr. Banner shrugged. "Super strength couldn't possibly contribute what he'd need to survive."

Mr. Stark drawls out sarcastically. "Super strength?"

"Yeah. I mean. So the kid can take a few punches - I was listening in on the Vulture fight, you know. Maybe he can jump really high? I don't really care. That enhancement gene, whether by birth or design, can't fix a… why are you looking at me like that, Tony? You know I hate that look."

"It's a great face. So do you… do you _not_ know?"

"Of course I don't _know._ If it was suspended animation, there would need to be consistent electromagnetic properties in place - a hibernation with no pulse couldn't be properly resurrected without an electric simulator, and last I checked, no one defibrillated the poor kid because it was pretty obvious he was dead with half his head blown off."

I nearly banged my head on the door in a sort of _face-palm_ realization, but thought better of it quickly. Vision glanced up only briefly.

"Radioactive pulses," Mr. Stark replied. I could hear the awkwardly clenched teeth in his voice. He was smiling, but still with a little sarcasm.

"The electric _and_ magnetic fields, yes, there would need to be pulses…"

"Yes," Mr. Stark added thinly. "Radioactive pulses. Many of them. Still going."

Dr. Banner paused. "Who exposed him to radioactive pulses?"

"They were already there," Mr. Stark sighed. "I can't believe you somehow _missed_ this."

"Missed _WHAT?"_ Dr. Banner exclaimed with frustration.

"The kid doesn't just have super strength," Mr. Stark laughed. He must be condescending patting Dr. Banner's shoulder. _Pat, pat._ "He's _Spider-Man."_

Dr. Banner sounded absolutely blind-sided. "You mean _that kid in there_ is SPIDER-MAN? The webbing climbing guy that was on the news a few times last year?"

"The one and only." Mr. Stark tried not to chuckle, and failed. "He's not just some enhanced kid Steve picked off the street and… nevermind. Let's let that rest. He's got some sort of radioactive frequency constantly changing his body chemistry with electromagnetic pulses and…"

"I know how that works," Dr. Banner replied, "So you mean to tell me that the radioactive-Spider-BOY…"

"Spider-Man," I muttered at the door.

"He's radioactive enough to jumpstart his own nervous system again?"

"With a structure repairing serum, I suppose," Mr. Stark added. "Which I fully intend to bother Natasha about. This stuff should be replicated for heroes on the front lines."

"You'll have to ask her."

"Oh, believe me, I will," Mr. Stark replied irritably.

"Maybe that's a battle you should save for another day," Dr. Banner sighed. "You don't want to go toe-to-toe with Nat on this one any time soon. Trust me."

"I do. Which is why I just told you the kid's super-secret identity. Don't let me down, now. After interning with us and recovering all mental faculties, I assume the kid is going to want to resume hero-work."

"Red spandex and all?"

"God, I hope no spandex. _My_ prototype should get a vote at least."

Mr. Stark began to walk back towards the door. I turned and penguin-power-walked back to the bed and just managed to get under the blanket when it began to open.

They returned to the hospital room with strained smiles.

The following night, I was allowed to sleep in my bed - my new bed. With Vision standing guard in the living room, saying that _this_ time, he wasn't permitted to leave - nor was I. That I was explicitly on _time out._

Just thinking about sleeping in a real bed at all makes me yawn.

"Did you have another nightmare last night?" Aunt May asks suddenly. My brain overshoots back to the present.

 _I actually have a brain. I'm alive. I'm okay. I'm in a car, going to a funeral._

"No," I say a little too quickly. "I mean… kind of. Not that I remember. I just woke up feeling really… sweaty and scared."

"Night terrors, probably. A little different. I've been doing a lot of research…"

"You mean WebMD…"

"Wikipedia, actually. We can't all be geniuses like you."

"Funny."

"Well, thanks. There's things we can try. You know. To make this easier for you."

"I know you want to help…"

"Don't tell me I can't, that won't fly."

"I won't tell you that. I won't. I just… don't need it… right _now."_

"Oh, I see," Aunt May purses her lips together. "You just want to have a _normal_ car ride through the city and listen to tunes and make small talk, is that it?"

"I've missed normal," I confess. "I want normal."

"Tunes it is." She turns up the dial. "You like Airheads, don't you?"

"It's… this is Radiohead, I think."

…

* * *

 **Silent Treatment -** _**Bruce Banner**_

* * *

...

Tony and Pepper pick me up, but I can't say that Tony's driving does anything for my stress levels - unusually high.

But he has a strange choice in music today; instrumental jazz. I feel like I am stuck in a perpetually fast elevator. Pepper's perfectly manicured hands tap to the beat on her lap.

We don't talk on our way to the graveside service.

I appreciate the sunshine when we pull into the small lot beside the cemetery. It's a beautiful scene - all blue skies, breezy trees. Smells like springtime, mown grass, dampness from the rain the night before. Bees waking up.

"You know," Tony says when he gets out of the car, "Your Bruce really is a chatterbox. Couldn't get him to shut up on the way here."

I slip out of the back and glance over. Natasha is waiting at the edge of the asphalt, dressed in a tasteful black dress with a high collar, long sleeved. She looks perfectly calm, capable, normal, but her knuckles are porcelain white as she grips a black handbag. The only sign that she's putting on a face for everyone else.

"Really," she says lightly, holding out an arm for me. I step into them and give her a peck on the cheek. "You'll have to tell me what the secret is."

"How was the drive?" I ask quietly. "The girls?"

"They're okay," she nods. "They are." She gives Tony and Pepper both an embrace, a kiss on the cheek each. Such polite, modest greetings, the way you're supposed to with friends and family at funerals. Nat barely shows such affections in normal circumstances, but this is beyond normal. Abnormal.

A funeral that should never have to happen - at least not for so many, many years.

Tony and Pepper walk arm-in-arm out of the lot and follow the path up the slight incline, and the path winds pleasantly between tall headstones. Writhing figures, angels, arches, and instruments decorate many of the grave markers, and we pass by a few mausoleums with pillared doors and locked, iron gates.

The small crowd is gathering up the hill a little further, beneath a largely gnarled oak. Every time a breeze rattles the branches, it feels cool and relieving - as if the air is much hotter than it is.

Wanda and Vision stand a little ways from everyone else, hand in hand beneath the shadows, as if feeling the need to be protected from the sun. Or the people. Sharon is tucked comfortably between her friends from Shield, a few agents, and some members of the Carter family.

There is no one living from Steve's family to bear witness.

Maria Hill is already in her designated place beside Nick Fury in sunglasses and a long coat. He looks larger than life, and yet his presence brings a certain level of gravity to the scene, hands politely folded in front of him as if officiating a wedding. I'm glad he was able to make it back from Wakanda in time. It wouldn't be right without him.

Clint and Laura are here too, Laura emoting far more than her husband. If I didn't know Clint, I would say the man holding Laura's hand is an animatronic who turned his facial features off for today as a replacement, so that Clint could go express his grief in his own way; alone and playing vigilante off the grid.

It hurts too much to do anything else, yet here we are.

I know there's one person in particular who probably wishes he could turn his face off somehow. Wade Wilson, wearing all black (but not a suit) and standing arm and arm with his partner, Vanessa. Or Ness, as she has told us repeatedly to call her. She is strangely refined and calm for dating someone like Wilson. I can also see why they're a good match.

She smiles genuinely at people when they stand close by. When Wade whispers something - likely inappropriate and ill-timed in her ear - she just listens without a flinch. She seems well-trained in the art of thwarting Deadpool's bullshit. Not only that, but she clearly enjoys it.

In the sunshine and setting, he has to go sans-mask. I know that's not his favorite, but most of us have seen his scarred and unusual visage. He's got nothing to be ashamed of. Wait, scratch that. He always _says_ something worth being ashamed of. But a face that looks like a piece of petrified wood nibbled on by termites is not one of those things.

Natasha and I make our way over to them, standing beside them.

"Hey," Ness greets Natasha with a warm embrace. "How are you?"

"What do you think?" Nat asks, exhaustion beneath her words and strained hum of a laugh that just can't fully form.

"I'm thinking, this is bullshit and should never have happened, and I'm truly sorry for your loss," Ness replies. "Bruce, how are you holding up?"

"All things considered? Okay." I give Wade a look.

"Are you guys still not talking?" Nat sighs.

"I'm on the fence about it," I whisper.

"What's got your dicks in a knot?" Vanessa says.

Yup. Well-matched.

"Brucey here is pissed because I won't tell him what I was doing while I was on sabbatical," Wade answers. "And I'm pissed off at him because when I got back from sabbatical, I found out my kid got shot in the head and it was way too much work to weasel an answer out of him to see how he was still standing. I don't like it when my team keeps secrets from me."

"Unless you're the one telling the secret," Nat says lightly.

"Hey, y'know, thanks to you and me," Wade snaps, "Bucko is still alive and well. If you two hadn't been screwing around thanks to _my_ directive, there'd be no loyalty and affection, hence he probably would have been offed as soon as he betrayed you. At least you knew him well enough to pick up on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hydra. Why? Why you ask? Because you _dated."_

I roll my eyes.

"Where is Barnes?" Nat asks.

"Ee' is unda d'lock and k-key," Wade replies mysteriously in a very bad Wakandan accent, clicking his tongue on the _key._ "Only the gods could let him out."

"Gods?" Nat repeats. "Or just one god?"

"One very handsome god," Wade answers, looking at Vanessa. "Babe, I'm so sorry, but if Thor were to ask, I _would_ leave you for him."

"No, absolutely," Vanessa replies smoothly. "That would _not_ be something to turn down. Do you even _know_ how many holidays the Asgardians celebrate?"

Wade gasps. "Don't tell me. I can't afford to get turned on right now. Not at a _funeral._ " He turns back to me. "I still want more details about how somehow the _Avengers_ lost track of an eighteen-year-old fledgling in their own goddamn building which somehow led to his death and resurrection in a matter of hours."

"I told you," I reply tiredly, "I don't fully understand what happened. I just know that his enhanced abilities was able to keep him from _fully_ dying; the electromagnetic pulses are the..."

"Blah, blah, boring science shit," Wade moans.

"This is why we're not talking," I sigh. "Why don't you ask Tony? He can explain what happened with a crayon diagram if needed."

"Well, Tony was the one that promised to get the kiddo back to the Tower safely," Wade snaps, "and he totally fucking failed that, so I'm not talking to him, either."

"He's sort of your boss," Vanessa whispers. "You'll have to talk to him eventually."

"Are you kidding?" Wade chuckles. "He's never been more _thrilled_ that I'm not talking to him. He said he feels like he's on a goddamn vacation."

"Then ask Peter," I say.

"I don't speak science," Wade says. "So your explanation did nothing for me. I need a little foreplay first to warm me up to words like _electromagnetic pulses in radiator springs combined with the epic juices of Deadpool's origin story…_ which honestly looks better if we don't recast Strucker, like, three or four times."

"I never said that," I sigh, an impatient look at the front of the crowd. There is a general hum of gentle conversation and I'm not worried about being overhead, but I wish the service would start already. I want to get this over with.

Steve was the most patient guy I knew, and at this point, he would probably offer to get the service started earlier just so he could send the people home for a nice lunch.

I turn back to Wade. "I told you as best I could. The kid's a walking miracle." Nat squeezes my hand, and I squeeze it back. We glossed over the serum part, and Wade pretended to be too dumb to understand, but I think part of it was him wishing to avoid speaking about his own experiences on Three Mile Island. He knows we used it, but he doesn't know why we had it in the the first place. And so far, he hasn't pushed her for an answer.

"Your turn," I say. "What happened on your little _trip_ that just happened to coincide with the incident at the Triskelion?"

"I have three words for you. Leap year, ipods, and xanax."

"That's four words," I sigh.

"No it's not."

"Leap year isn't one word. It's two. If you count _and,_ you said five words."

"Just watch the news," Wade replies. "You'll get the idea. Or you'll _hypothesize._ Isn't that what you scientists do?"

"I don't like guessing games," I reply.

Shield has gone dark. Reported multiple deaths during an attack on the Triskelion. Still hazy on the details. It isn't breaking news yet, which is even worse. Usually they'd be plastering this shit all over the media to stay within the public's sympathies. If they are trying to keep it quiet for now, in order to better control the outcome and release a very short statement to the public, that means it was _bad._ Whatever _it_ was.

"Maybe you should not have gone into experimental sciences," Wade snarks.

"They've been doing this for 24 hours," Nat sighs.

"How can I bottle that kind of longevity?" sighs Vanessa.

"Aren't you angry yet?" Wade whispers.

"No," I reply.

"Damn," he sighs. "I was hoping we could actually have something happen _other_ than this funeral. So that we could look back on today and think, eh, not too bad."

"Happen," I repeat, "What - like, the Hulk reappearing?"

"Don't you think the big guy wants to pay his respects?" Wade asks.

"No, not at all."

"Cap was, after all, the one who coined the Smash thing."

"I'm sure Hulk is aware. But he ain't invited." I sigh tiredly. "I'm not out to ruin any funerals."

"What are the chances I could convince you to go smash some mailboxes with me and Rhodey after this?"

"Rhodes wants to do what now?"

"No, no, he wants nothing. I'm kidnapping _him._ He's been neglected lately."

Rhodes is standing not too far ahead of us. He glances over his shoulder at me confusedly. "Did you call me?" he whispers.

"No," I mouth, waving at him. He turns back around.

"Okay, Red," Ness interjects. "It's adult time."

"Adult time? That usually means something a _little_ different with a lot less clothing," Wade glances around. "It's going to be a little awkward with all these people around. But. I'm game if you are."

She smiles at him patiently. "Future-baby's name is Martha with both a middle name and a last name if you don't zip it."

"Jesus, Christ, no. Okay. I'll first-class this shit and seal up." He pretends to lock up his mouth and throw away a key.

"Please teach me your ways," Nat stage-whispers to Ness.

"You'd have to have his baby to pull this string," Ness shrugs. "I only loan him out on Tuesdays if you want to give him a shot."

I wince. Vanessa has absolutely no idea about the sterilization, otherwise she wouldn't joke about it. I glance at Nat out of the corner of my eye, worried for her reaction, but she's clenching her mouth to keep herself from laughing loudly.

"I can't on Tuesdays," Natasha responds with a smile. "Bunco night."

Wade gives me a pained expression. "So many jokes. Can't say. Lost key."

"Why are you two so weirdly perfect together?" Sam Wilson hisses from behind us. "God, it's like watching… I don't honestly know."

Vanessa turns and smiles at him over her shoulder. "I'll take that as a compliment."

I notice Peter Parker coming up the path, his hands in his pockets, walking with his head shyly down beside another woman, which I presume to be the aunt I've heard so much about but had not met yet. They get to the edge of the gravesite, looking a little uncomfortable.

Tony quickly runs over to them, shakes Peter's hand, shakes the woman's hand, and then holds out his arm to usher them into the group. They make their way around us to stand in the back, forming their own small row between Sam Wilson and Vision and Wanda.

Wade glances over his shoulder and gives the kid a nod. "Good to see you, Sugarbear."

"You too, Mr. Wilson. Um. This is my aunt, May Parker."

May Parker looks wildly confused at Wade's scarred appearance. "Nice to meet you," she replies, but the word _you_ goes up a little on the end, as if it is a question. "Sorry we're meeting under these… circumstances."

Wade shrugs. "Believe me. I've had worse. I'd rather meet such lovely people as yourself at a funeral than - say - a Tokyo bathhouse." He gestures to Ness. "This is Vanessa."

"It's so nice to finally meet you both," Vanessa shakes May's hand, then Peter's. "You should be really proud of your nephew," she says kindly to May. "I hear nothing but good things about him."

May gives Peter an elbow nudge and smiles.

Peter looks uncomfortable, but he nods and says _thank-you._

 _I feel ya, kid. I do._ These things are always so formally stilted, uncomfortable - exposed. Feeling so out of place even with the people who would take bullets for you, like you've never worked with them on a day to day basis, even when you have.

It's a different world here, a strange, small bubble where we put one of our own in the ground, and we're expected to still talk, smile, shake hands, and share memories and maintain the balance of normal social interaction.

"Hey, kid," I say to Peter.

His eyes light up a little. "Yeah, Dr. Banner?"

"Don't let me forget. I want to pick your brain later. I've had some thoughts on upcoming projects you'll probably find interesting."

"Okay, sure, cool," he responds, a shy smile stretching across his face. "What… what sort of projects?"

"Vibranium manipulation, for one."

"I'm in," Peter says quickly. "All the way. Definitely."

Wade shuts his eyes in a pained, PG-censored sort of expression. He doesn't have any opportunity, thank God, to act on any whims, as a voice cuts through the modest hum of polite conversation.

"Thank you all for coming today," Nick Fury addresses everyone, standing by the service directors, and a Reverend dressed in the black with the white collar. "I'm going to keep this short. We're here to… to grieve… and celebrate the life of America's hero, Captain Steven Grant Rogers… a veteran, a loving friend, someone I know I wanted to be when I grew up…"

He pauses, clears his throat. "Steve wasn't your average kid growing up, except, maybe in appearance. A stick of a kid, running up and down these Brooklyn streets, playing baseball, going to church with his mother on Sundays, maintaining good grades in school. But there was always something different about Steve - some might say a chip on his shoulder. A troubled kid spoiling for a fight."

Nick shrugs. "Maybe from an outsider's perspective who didn't know him, sure. He came home to Sarah with black eyes and bloody noses more often than not. It took awhile before the truth started coming out. Steve Rogers was a hero in the making. A puny young one, at the time, a scrappy fellow who thought he had nothing to lose. He has a special eye out for anyone in need. Someone hurting. Someone who needed a friend, someone who needed him to step in when others walked by."

The wind rattles the branches above.

"By the age of twelve he was throwing himself at any bully or mugger that dared show their face. While others walked by someone on the sidewalk begging for spare change, Steve stopped. He gave his time and attention. If he didn't have any change, he knelt beside them and asked them if there was anything he could do to help. Saw someone getting roughed up in an alley? He stepped in and took those hits, fought off assailants - he threw himself in harm's way _time and time again."_

He pauses, saddened. "That's what you have to know about Steve. He wasn't just _Captain America._ That was a moniker - a symbol. Something to market, really, by the US Army who recognized - thankfully - a figure that would inspire hope and sacrifice at a time when our country needed it most. It was more than a serum for muscle increase and enhanced speed and strength. You could have put that scientific shit in anybody." He pauses, glances over his shoulder. "Apologies, Father."

The Reverend only smiles gently and waves him off.

"The thing you got to understand about Steve Rogers was he didn't slap a sticker on his chest that said _hero,_ injected a serum in his veins, and then tried to live up to it. That's who he was long before the stars and stripes, before the shield, before the war, and before the attack on New York. Heroes don't need labels. They just _do_ the right thing because they want to. They have a need for it. A drive to help others that is centered in their very being long before anyone else gets a hold of them."

Nick pauses and sighs. "Steve would be embarrassed by my speech, I know that. He would wave it off. He'd say - _I do what anyone else would have done in my place_. But _we,_ his friends - loved ones. We know that's not true. Put any one of us in his place and the outcome is different. Steve had the insatiable desire to help others before he helped himself. That's what made him a good person, a friend, a best friend, a brother to many of us."

Nick puts his hands in his pockets. "Forget everything the world says about Captain America. Remember Steve Rogers, the scrawny kid who jumped into an alleyway to fight off three guys because he saw someone smaller and weaker getting picked on. The history books will tell us that Steve gained his strength with the serum when the war started. That ain't true. Steve showed strength long before that. Strength of character. The world will miss him, but if we _all_ tried to emulate what he has taught us, we can honor his legacy. He won't be forgotten. More importantly, Steve wouldn't want us to forget the most important things. Helping others when we are at our weakest. Even when it's not convenient, or we think it's too late. _That's_ strength. And that's what Steve Rogers taught me."

He nods to the Reverend, and then, down at the grave. "Rest in peace, brother."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT:** The Avengers would never make Bucky miss Steve's funeral. He watches safely from a distance with two recognizable body guards, and two unexpected conversations that bring him closure.

* * *

 **Thank you as always to Crystal, QueenofCrystallopia, my beta and amazing friend! Thank you for listening to my scientific mumbo-jumbo.**

* * *

 **UPDATE:** I FINALLY posted a new chapter of WHERE THEY GO. I have one more left to finish before it's finally done! Thank you are for your patience and if you haven't read my Infinity War sequel that tells you what Peter and the rest of the gang are up to after the Thanos snap, please check it out!

And at the end of the reviewer replies, please keep scrolling for a sneak peak at my NEW Avengers fic, INTO OBLIVION.

* * *

 **Review Replies**

Fanatic2018 - Thank you so much for your review! I am actually a huge fan of Brooklyn 99! They are just the funniest! I feel like I'm Jake in real life lol.

EleanorGardner - Man Eragon was quite a disappointment, I recently watched the trailer again for fun and was shocked that it was even worse than I remembered! to be fair, I still totally enjoyed the movie even though it was terrible, haha! Thank you for your review, I am so glad you are enjoying my lil book!

Sakura-Fiction - OMG thank you so much for such a long and detailed and delicious review, I'm fangirling over it. I am so grateful people respond so well to my Deadpool, I love writing him so much, and I definitely want to keep writing more material for him in more fic even when this one is over. I'm so glad you enjoyed Peter's POV, I didn't think it made sense for anyone else's for his miraculous recovery back to the world of the living. I hope Steve's funeral was up to par. Thank you as always for your incredible thoughtfulness in your reviews, it means so much to me!

RedBarchetta - I am so glad you liked Peter's resurrection and the deadpool scenes! your review made my day! Thank you! And thank you for reading!

DaWriter06 - I think we have two more chapters left my dear friend! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

LoonyLovegood1981 - Unfortunately I don't have all the space I want to cram in all the reunions, but there will definitely be some May and MJ moments to give us a brief glimpse into their restored relationships. Thank you so much for your sweet review! Hopefully the funeral wasn't too terrible!

Starnight5 - THANK YOU SO MUCH! I am so glad you are enjoying it! and yes, this story is coming to a close... I am planning for 2 more chapters (both of them are partially written, fully outlined at this point). We shall have plenty of Peter though before the story is over.

Guest - Thank you SO much!

cargumentluv - I am so glad you enjoyed! I was cracking up at how many people freaked out and I WANTED SO BADLY to tell everyone that Peter LIVES but I couldn't because it would spoil that twist, haha. Thank you so much for reading!

Tightpants182 - LOL thank you so much for your review! I am so glad you warmed to the idea of Peter's resurrection lol. I couldn't leave him dead, it just wasn't right. When I decided to rewrite The Departed in the Avengers universe, I decided early on that Peter could NOT die at the end of this story. It just wasn't right, not after all he went through. (also totally cracking up at how many times Loki has "died" in the movies. Aren't we up to four separate deaths now? it's crazy!) I am so glad you are enjoying and reading. Thank you.

* * *

 **SNEAK PEAK of _INTO OBLIVION_ \- a *new* Avengers story!**

* * *

Aunt May pauses. "Ned and Michelle are going with us."

I blink. "They're going with us to Wakanda…? I mean - wow, that's awesome. I mean. I guess I'll be there already. I'll see them…"

"Not just to Wakanda," Aunt May turns towards me and tugs on my arm, till I sit down again at the table beside her. "To the spaceport in Wakanda. They're going to Xandar too."

I blink. "They're what?"

"You knew Uncle Ben bought an extra ticket for Ned…"

"Ned read the letter," I protest. "He didn't even take that part seriously, otherwise he would have been freaking out about going to Xandar with me. I thought you might want to… I don't know… sell the other two tickets… or something… I know we need the money, and…"

"Listen to me, please," Aunt May interrupts. "I had some… conversations… with their parents. Separately. I… proposed… letting them come with us, to look at the colleges on Xandar, too. It's a huge opportunity. And they're your best friends. I thought you might want them to come."

I blink at her. "Of course I'd want them to come, but…"

"Ned has his ticket. Your friend Michelle will use Ben's ticket. We can…" Aunt May swallows convulsively. "We can pretend all we want, sweetheart. That this is just a college road trip. Campus tours. But you know this is it. This planet is going to be uninhabitable in a year… months, maybe. Everyone will be relocating to Xandar if they can afford it, at least to take advantage of the refugee program and eventually go to Asgard or the new colonies elsewhere."

I watch her, protests and questions dying before they can emerge.

"Parents will do anything for their children," Aunt May says softly. "And it's selfish of me, I know, to keep a ticket for myself, but I can't bear the thought of losing you, so I'm going. And that's final. But the other two…"

"May…"

"When I asked Mr. and Mrs. Leeds what they thought of Ned coming with us, they wept. They couldn't… they could not express enough gratitude. They want Ned off planet as soon as he can be. They will soon follow, they promised they wouldn't be far behind."

"Holy shit," I whisper.

"Michelle's parents had a similar reaction. They - freaked out. Of course they want her to get off planet as soon as possible. They're worried they won't ever be able to afford them all going at once - if they ever get to leave at all. But they want their daughter somewhere safe. They said yes. Of course they did." She takes a deep breath. "Like I said. We'll do anything for our children. They're coming to Xandar with us."

* * *

...

* * *

 **Check out my other Avengers fics!**

 **INTO OBLIVION -** Peter Parker and his friends race across the galaxy to destroy an infinity stone before Thanos tracks them down. A new adventure across space staring Spider-Man and the Avengers loosely based on LORD OF THE RINGs.

 **Where They Go -** What happened to Peter Parker after the Thanos snap? This adventure takes you across space (AND TIME!) and reunites you with friends old and new in alternative universes where Peter tries to navigate a strange afterlife, trapped between dimensions!

 **The Vast Marvel -** Collections of Marvel one-shots - at least three entirely NEW drabbles have been posted here that do not exist anywhere else on this website! Cameos from Deadpool, the Defenders, Agents of Shield, and crazy dreams I've had set in the Marvel universe.

 **Down Came the Rain/Down Came the Rain Retold -** I wrote Down Came the Rain in a "Thirteen Reasons Why" style of flash forwards and flashbacks, with young Peter Parker being kidnapped and tortured by a rogue NYPD cop and the psychological results of his ordeal. Then I went back and rewrote in a chronological timeline, fixing a lot of plot holes, timing issues, character development, and essentially crafted a much finer story with a lot of the same plot and dialogue (with some new scenes entirely!)

 **Friends Across Dimensions -** This is purely self-insert crack with a glorious crossover between QueenofCrystallopia and myself. For a birthday Gift!Fic, I wrote a tale of Crystal and I falling into the Avengers universe to aid our heroes in a battle against her original creations, the Dravec aliens, from her amazing fic "Riders in the Sky". Hilarity and fantastic one-liners commenced.


	28. Honor and Memory

...

 **CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Honor and Memory**

…

...

* * *

 **PTSD -** _ **Peter Parker**_

* * *

…

I listened to Mr. Fury's speech, but I still felt like I didn't fully _hear_ it. It makes me think of the last funeral I went to.

Uncle Ben's funeral had a speech by a local minister, but he hadn't known him personally. The eulogy noted that he is survived by _wife and nephew,_ a list of dates in his life like when he graduated high school and got married, and what he enjoyed to do for hobbies. His work in the mechanic's garage was mentioned briefly too, how much he enjoyed helping the bad neighborhoods for lower costs. How lighthearted that statement seemed at the time. I had no idea his primary customers were criminals, many of them with the Vulture.

When Mr. Fury finished, the Reverend did a similar introduction, a very brief overview of Steve's life, as if it were a brochure biography. When he served, how brave he was to test the super-soldier serum, his devotion to the country. He brought up that he was a gifted combatant, but also a soldier for peace and goodness, and a God-fearing man. And he didn't mean the Asgardian kind.

I was doing okay until Sharon Carter moved by the portrait of Steve on a small easel to make a short speech. She spoke briefly about Steve as her boyfriend, leaving out any references at all to his super-soldier alter. She noted his kindness and inherent goodness, how privileged she felt to be with him for a short time.

"I feel so alone without him," she says quietly, as if this were an unplanned part of the speech. "But I know he would tell me I'm not alone."

 _I am alone -_

 _You are not alone, Peter…_

 _I am alone._

I don't mean for her words to trigger a weird sort of flashback to his death, and the aftermath, but that's what happens. I feel hot - too hot - inside of my chest, and the palms of my hands begin to sweat.

First with the guy on the sidewalk, and now. This has to be PTSD. At least that's what my therapist will probably say… Because I have one of those now - a therapist. It will be an Avengers-required weekly appointment. My first is in a few days.

Mr. Stark says if I ever try to skip a future session, "Your ass is banned from the lab."

I know I am going to enjoy working in the lab. Getting into my niche that has been long neglected… science and technology experimentation. I won't risk that.

 _Two small, dark holes have plunged through his shirt…._

"I need to step away for just a moment," I whisper as quietly as I can to Aunt May.

"You okay?" she mouths back, eyes wide with concern. "What's up?"

"It's fine. I just need… to. I'll be right back." I slip between her, nodding uncomfortably at those I pass to move to the back of the crowd. I feel like Vision in particular is giving me a once-over. Maybe he's reading my vitals as I walk by - I have no idea.

 _One through the lung, one through the heart. Pools of blood seep through his gray shirt, dripping black and scarlet, spreading fast like crimson ink._

"Pete," Sam Wilson is the one standing in the furthest corner of the crowd. There are more headstones and graves behind him, like a long, wide, green paper of a pop-up book with gray fixtures that stand up when you turn the page. "You good?"

"I'm good," I say shortly.

"Hey," he interjects quietly. We're standing far enough back that we're not interrupting Sharon. If anything, the breezes help give us some sound cover, and the crowd is big enough for me not to be noticed. There's maybe thirty other Shield agents and veterans that I don't recognize.

"It's okay to say if you're not good."

"I need a walk," I say. "I don't know why."

"Remember I do this for a living," Sam reminds me gently. "Take your walk. Remember, deep breaths. If it gets bad… dizziness, shortness of breath, anything like that… I'm a text away. Ping me if you need _anything."_

I forget sometimes that before he was The Falcon, Sam was working with veterans at the shelter for support groups. Specifically with PTSD struggles and the temptations that can come from the mental duress after war.

I guess it's nice that he's somehow recognizing that what I went through wasn't just wearing a disguise and listening in on conversations with a magnifying glass in a shadowy hallway. I wasn't looking for clues like a desktop mystery game.

I was just living in a criminal warzone and hoping something good came out of it.

"Thanks Sam," I say. "Really."

"Anytime, kiddo."

"I'm - not a kid," I remind him, a half smile on my face.

"Beat it," he winks, nodding towards the path.

I walk up the hill a little further, circling a few interesting headstones, trying to distract myself by the carved statues of writhing angels and the inscribed names and dates. My pulse is too fast and I'm sweating, but it's not the worst panic attack I've had.

If my peripheral vision starts to turn into kaleidoscope patterns and encroach on what I'm _physically_ seeing, it means I'm on the verge of a complete, migraine-induced blackout.

I learned _that_ my first morning in Avengers Tower, newly alive, and right after learning that Mr. Stark had called my aunt and that she was on her way to see me.

"Aunt May is comiiiiing heeeere," I had sung to myself excitedly, walking around our new apartment, trying to see if there was anything I should straighten or clean before she arrived. Mr. Stark had already collected the old phones, so, that was literally the only mess I had made. The place was spotless and I had nothing to do.

Then I saw something weirdly patterned in my peripheral vision, like a bad special effect for a drug trip in an old movie. I turned in a weird circle, staring straight ahead, and then in the corners of my eyes, animated sequences like snowflake spikes started appearing. It was putting an oddly rainbow filter over everything and slowly growing bigger.

I had rushed back upstairs to the doctors, blasting by Vision standing guard at my door. Instead of forcing me to stop and tell him what was wrong, he just serenely floating along behind me, keeping up easily enough, eyebrows raised - wait, do those _count_ as eyebrows? - and patiently waiting while I burst into the hospital wing I had just vacated.

I absolutely lost my shit, convinced I was going blind because I was losing my super-healing and a bullet hole would reappear in my head and kill me all over again.

"I've got like sparkly animated diamond stuff all over," I had blabbered, sobbing like a baby, waving my hands around to try and illustrate where it was from my perspective. "Am I going to die again? It's all, like," I made sparky motions with my hands. "It's like LSD except I'm going BLIND!"

One of the nurses just grabbed my shoulders calmly, and said, "You're not going to die. It's a visual distortion sometimes caused by a migraine. An aura." She pushed me into a chair, rubbing my arms gently. "It's going to pass. Let's just talk through what you're seeing. It's not pleasant but it won't kill you. Understand?"

"It's a what?" I asked. I had been crying, but, I hadn't noticed how badly my head was pounding. Now I did.

She explained that neurological associations between migraines and PTSD are unknown, it's a very commonly reported symptom and there's ways to get through it.

"This is why it's a good thing you're going to be meeting with that therapist," she said, rather sternly.

All I knew was that I had gotten shot in the head the night before, and now I could barely see. And surely that meant I wasn't going to live through the hour.

It… wasn't a great morning.

I'd say this one is better, except I'm at a funeral. For Captain America, of all people…

 _Steve had looked so surprised… the pain didn't register. He didn't feel it. He heard it. And then it stopped his heart…_

My Spider-senses give a sputter of warning. Nothing dangerous, only that I am no longer alone. But it's weird, too, it's like registering an old threat, no longer applicable, and something else I've never felt before - something that registers on a higher scale, like my spider-senses got itself a penny whistle and started playing a very high pitched note. It feels alien, unusual.

"Shit," I whisper, leaning against a large headstone. I glance, bleary-eyed, over to a set of shadows standing on the hill. A sort of flutter of fanboy excitement tries to take over my current grief and panic.

There are three of them. One very tall, wearing a cape. One not as tall, but better-dressed. While I've never seen them in person before, it's easy to guess who they are. Thor and the King of Wakanda.

Standing on either side of Bucky Barnes, wrists bound in cylindrical metal cuffs.

He sees me before I can turn and go back to the funeral, pretending I didn't see him. He lifts the cuffed wrists hesitantly, hand open in a single wave.

I summon my courage. Now or never, I guess.

I push off the headstone, stuff my hands in my pockets, and turn away from the path to walk slowly up the incline towards them.

…

* * *

 **Closure -** _ **Bucky Barnes**_

* * *

…

"This person approaching," the Asgardian says questioningly, "Is he a friend of yours?"

"I wouldn't say friend," I say tightly. "I tried to kill him."

King T'Challa nods knowingly. "Ah. I see."

"I don't suppose he approaches for revenge," Thor hums. He almost sounds a little disappointed.

"I don't think so," I reply. "That's Peter Parker. He's a good kid."

"We are not here to fight in his defense even so," King T'Challa reminds in his thick accent. "If trouble should come, we are under _strict_ orders to extract him immediately."

"Good," Thor replies. "I am not eager to fight small Midgardian children."

"What exactly is our plan for leaving?" I ask agitatedly.

T'Challa points to the sky. "My ship awaits. We leave after the ceremony." He gives me a look. "The Avengers were kind enough to let you stay. We honor that."

I glance up. "Your ship isn't there."

"Surely it's invisible," Thor says solemnly. "Captain Rogers' crowd of friends may not be worried by its appearance, but it would certainly be a distraction. We can come and go quietly if needed."

I accept his explanation with a nod, feeling nervousness creep into my lungs when Peter is close enough to speak to.

He pauses, hands in pockets, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

"Hey," I say, finally.

"Hey," he replies shortly, looking with some awestruck innocence at Thor and Black Panther. "Your majesties," he says quickly, suddenly remembering they are both royal. "Um. I mean. Yeah. Your highness-ses?" He dips his head, in a sort of bow.

"We don't do that," T'Challa gives him a courteous hand to wave him off.

Thor declares simultaneously, "Either title is WELCOME, Young Parker."

Peter looks confused but doesn't try to undo it. "Um. Thanks. It's good to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"Would you like to take a selfie with me?" Thor asks.

"Oh, sure," Peter answers. "But… I don't have my phone."

"No need." Thor says, beaming.

T'Challa sighs.

"Never mind," Peter says quickly. "I'm sure - we'll have another opportunity sometime. I'm going to be an Avenger. We'll get to work together - maybe."

"Fine news!" Thor says. "At welcome. I look forward to standing at your side in battle."

"Let us hope it does not come to that," T'Challa says calmly. "Let peace run its course and not hurry it away."

"Mr. Stark explained what you're going to do," Peter says. "We all really appreciate it." He looks at me. "You'll let us know how it goes, right?"

I hesitate. "Yeah. Yeah I'll… keep in touch. I guess."

"Oh," Peter responds. "I mean. You don't have to. If you don't want to. That's fine."

"No, it's fine," I say, almost at the same time. "I guess I just - thought no one would want to speak with me. After what happened."

Peter shrugs. "It wasn't your fault. It's…" he pauses. "Not your fault," he repeats.

"No ones fault?" I suggest. "It's not yours, either, you know."

"I didn't say that."

"Trust me. I know how to recognize _self blame._ And it's not."

"I know," Peter sighs. "It's easier to say than believe."

"You have been through a difficult ordeal," says T'Challa. "Both of you."

Peter and I both nod simultaneously, our body language matching. Both nervous and expecting different emotions than what was happening. Maybe expecting each of us to be angry somehow, but we're not.

"I'm glad you could come to the funeral," Peter says. "He was your best friend. He would want you here. Even at a distance."

"Thanks," I say quietly. "I'm glad I'm here too."

"I don't blame you, you know, for any of it," Peter adds, as if he hadn't planned on saying it at all, and the words are escaping. "The bad guys were responsible for what happened. All of it. You were being used and it wasn't fair."

A pause.

"Did you feel the same way?" I ask calmly. "That you were being used?"

Peter looks back down the hill at the crowd beneath the oak tree, the branches rattling in the breeze and shielding most of them from being able to see us from where we stood.

Thor coughs uncomfortably.

"A little," Peter admits. "But I don't want to be _mad_ at Captain America. He…"

"He died," I finish. "I'm mad that I'll never be able to explain that I wasn't myself. To apologize in person. He would be upset to know that _he_ doesn't get an opportunity to apologize to you." I pause. "I knew him better than any of them. I'm sure Stark and Nat would try to argue with me on this, but it's true. I've known him longer. I knew him _first._ So I feel safe speaking for him, in a way."

Peter gives me a confused, but hopeful expression.

"Steve would be very sorry that his undercover operation was poorly planned and badly executed," I say. "He'd admit it, and he'd apologize. He would swear that no such operation would occur again without the right resources…" I pause. "Or, maybe putting someone better equipped undercover."

Peter raises his chin. "I did okay."

"You did, but it was not a good use of your skills. You were given the bare minimum to work with and it only came out okay because _you_ had the guts and the heart to follow through." I pause. "Let me rephrase that. Things only came out okay because you _lived,_ but you almost didn't. We can't count on miracles like that. Coincidental healing abilities are hit and miss. If that was the only thing standing between you and death, you shouldn't have been put there to begin with."

"I don't suppose that's much different than being an Avenger someday," Peter sighs. "Which I still plan on doing, by the way, so if you want to try and change my mind, you can get in line."

I shrug. "I don't want to change your mind."

"You don't?"

"I think you'll make a good Avenger. The best, maybe. I think it's safe to say that this was not a good way to induct you. You are better suited to other missions. Steve would recognize that. He'd say so - now." I pause. "He'd be very proud of you. You earned his trust and respect. That never went away. His only regret was not getting a chance to tell you himself."

Peter's chin trembles, pauses a long time before answering. "Thank you." He looks down the hill again, as if expecting someone to follow, pushing his ear to his shoulder for a split second as if hearing a fly buzz too close to his head.

 _BANG!_

The gunfire goes off down the hill - it's a military funeral, and perfectly normal. Three volley salute - honoring Steve's contribution to the world war.

Peter flinches so hard he fully steps to the left by a few inches, slapping his hands over his ears.

"Hey," I say quickly. "It's okay."

"I know, I know, I know." Peter says quickly, folding his arms defensively over his chest. "21 gun thing. I know. It just startled me."

 _BANG BANG BANG!_

The sound takes me back, like plunging me into a cold pool.

Fighting side by side with Steve, fleeing the Hydra facility together…

Returning a hero, flanked by the men presumed dead that everyone had given up on already.

But not Steve. He didn't know what it mean to _give up._

 _BANG BANG BANG BANG -_

We listen to the rest of the gunshots, Peter visibly clenching his arms to keep from flinching every time.

"This honor is curious," T'Challa muses. "Weapons firing for the soldier, I presume?"

"Represents a ceasefire, in some respects," I answer. "It means peace. For us. And for Steve."

"The Captain would be greatly honored by that," Thor says sadly. "I look forward to returning to Asgard tonight and sharing stories of his valor. He will be renowned in _every_ realm. Not just on Midgard."

I look at Peter. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. I should go. It looks like it's done. Aunt May won't be happy I abandoned her." He shrugs. "I guess I'm just not brave enough for funerals."

"But you are a brave warrior," Thor tells him kindly. "So I've heard from _everyone,_ your friends hold you in very high esteem."

"Thanks, uh, Thor, sir," Peter says. "I guess… I guess I'll see you later, Bucky. Take care of yourself." He looks at T'Challa. "Er, I guess, that's your job now. I… hope it goes… well?"

"We will do what can for James," T'Challa says. "You have my word on that. We have the most advanced scientific and medical assistance in the world and she - they - will find a way to relieve Mr. Barnes of all negative influences."

I give Peter a thin smile. "See? I feel better already."

"Good," Peter says quietly, and starts to walk away, meeting someone on the path of the hill. "Oh, hey," he says lightly. "Did Aunt May send you?"

I lean to get a better look. _Natasha._

"Any chance we could leave now?" I ask.

"I think someone else wishes to speak to you," T'Challa says. "We can wait."

Natasha pats Peter kindly on the shoulder. "I'm sure your aunt is waiting for you."

Peter nods nervously, looking back at me with a look of sympathy, and then continues down the hill.

"No, I mean, maybe we could leave now," I say, mostly joking, but also feeling cowardice creep into my stomach.

"Why leave now?" Thor asks loudly. "I wish to see my friend before we go." He holds up a hand. "Widow."

"Thor," Nat greets warmly. He bends down and gives her a hug that I can only describe as _mighty_ embrace. "Glad you could come under these circumstances."

"I would rather be no other place than to pay my last respects to the Captain. And I am honored to come to the aid of his friend, and form an alliance with this Midgardian Panther King," Thor slaps me a little too hard on the shoulder. Thankfully, not the one with the two healing bullet wounds in it.

" _Kuhle ukukubona,"_ T'Challa says.

" _Kwaye wena,"_ Natasha replies. " _Unjani usisi wakho?"_

" _Kakuhle._ _Enkosi."_ He pauses. " _Ingaba ulungile?"_

" _Ndifuna ukuthetha naye,"_ Natasha says in a weirdly sly tone, looking at me, but not looking at me. She won't make eye contact. " _Kodwa ndoyika."_

"Why are you nervous?" Thor asks loudly.

Nat glares at him. "I did not know you spoke Wakandan."

Thor shrugs. "Is that what you are speaking? I have heard remarkably similar root languages, even in other realms. Did you not say that you were nervous?"

"Yes," Nat says tiredly, "That _is_ what I said. More or less. I'm not fluent."

There's a short, awkward silence.

"Are you nervous to talk to me?" I ask.

"Yes," she says without hesitation. "I am."

"Then you don't have to talk to me," I say quickly. "Don't ever feel like you have to do anything you don't want to do. Ever. Let me. Let me apologize again." I pause. "If I can, let me tell you one last time how much I love you. Then I'll never say it again. I promise."

Natasha takes a deep breath. "Thor?" she asks. "T'Challa - would you mind giving me a moment alone with him?"

" _Ndixelelwe ukuba ndihlale apha,"_ T'Challa answers.

"Our orders are explicit, Natasha," Thor says.

" _Akayi kundilimaza,"_ Nat replies. "Barnes _uyandithanda."_

"This is a surprise," Thor says, confusion on his face. "Does our friend Dr. Banner know of this challenger for your hand?"

Nat gives him a swift glare that could melt Asgard.

"We'll give you a moment," Thor recedes awkwardly. "We will stand close."

"That's fine," Nat answers crisply.

Thor and T'Challa each step away, Thor even gives me a pat on the shoulder before leaving. They move some distance away, only about twenty four, maybe thirty feet. Hardly _alone._ But I am surprised at all that she asked.

I brace myself for the inevitable words that will hurt. We can't exactly break up because we were never truly together in the first place, but it feels like that's what is about to happen. Nothing I could say would salvage what we had when it wasn't there to begin with.

…

* * *

 **Forgiveness -** _ **Natasha Romanoff**_

* * *

…

We stare at each other for a moment, quietly. Sizing each other up to see who will break first. That's how the game always went with us, and we didn't have a chance to form any real love to try it any other way.

Barnes looks down at the ground. "Nat," he starts slowly.

"Don't, I'll talk." I brace myself and cross my arms over my chest. "Let me apologize. For using you."

He looks up, face white with shock. "You didn't use me."

"Just because you enjoyed it," I remind him, "Doesn't mean I wasn't using you."

He looks away. "If this were a real relationship, then you would be right. But the whole reason you were doing it to begin with was because I was with Hydra."

"But I didn't know, that's on me," I say. "If I let Deadpool get into my head long enough, I would have even dated you longer - I was convincing myself it was important. Maybe I was enjoying you, too, in my own strange way. I could have stopped any time. And I didn't."

I pause. "And by saying that, I don't mean to give you any kind of hope of… us. Let me be clear. I care, but not in that way."

He smiles softly. "You don't have to love me to care about me."

"Which means my apology is warranted, so let me give one." I sigh. "If you care about someone, you shouldn't try to hurt them."

"But _I was with Hydra,"_ Barnes repeats. "You were _right_ to make me your mission, no matter what context you chose. I was the bad guy. And you needed to know the truth."

I feel myself growing annoyed with him. Why won't he let me apologize? I look away, squinting into the sunlight for a moment. Thor, from his perch, lifts a hand. I wave him away, indicating we still need some time.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask. "Clearly you don't accept my apology."

"It's not needed," he says. "I'm the one who made it possible for Steve to be killed. I put Rumlow on the ground and had him followed…and he wasn't just reporting him to me, he was reporting him to Pierce…"

"But you _didn't know that at the time,"_ I say angrily.

"It doesn't matter. Consequences of my actions."

"You were being controlled."

"I got my best friend killed," Barnes says heavily. "Through no luck of mine, Peter Parker was killed and somehow _lived,_ which I still don't get how that is possible…"

I shrug uncomfortably. "He's enhanced. It happens."

"Steve was enhanced, and it didn't happen."

I flinch slightly, try to cover it up with an uncharacteristic hair flip. Luckily the wind makes it necessary anyway.

"What was _that?"_ Barnes asks.

"Nothing."

"Come on, Romanoff. I know your have something."

"I'm not going to explain how," I say quietly. "But I will tell you why. And you may hate me."

"I could never hate you."

"I had an… opportunity, and unexpected means to save a life," I say quietly. "That night. When I told everyone I needed a moment. I went back to the morgue and I had one shot to save a life. _One."_

He gives me a confused look. "How did you do it?"

"I already told you. I'm not going to explain how."

"I'm sorry. You did."

"But you need to know why I didn't choose Steve," I hug my arms now, feeling that the breeze is colder, but the gooseflesh that prickles my arm and back are hot, and nervous. "I chose Peter…"

"Because he's a kid," he infers. "Steve would have wanted that. I would have chosen it too. Kids come first. _Always."_

I pause. "Then you understand?"

"I do." He shuts his eyes briefly, as if wishing his agreement didn't sound so much like a wedding vow.

"I don't want Peter's death - or Steve's, for that matter, on your conscious," I say. "Let me put it this way. Even when the Winter Soldier was in full control - something was still in there. Still fighting. Your _first reaction_ to Rumlow's shooting Peter in the head - and then finding out he was with Pierce, and therefore, part of Steve's murder - you tricked him into giving you a gun and shooting him."

He looks away. "I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Because you keep saying that I don't owe you any apologies because you were with Hydra. So what? Even in your most _basest,_ primal take-over, when the Winter Soldier was going to fight you out of that room, you still shot and killed _Rumlow._ You didn't kill me. Or Sam."

"Not for lack of trying."

"You've had more difficult targets than us and took them out easily enough."

"What are you trying to say?"

"It's not what _I'm_ trying to say. You won't let me say it," I exclaim with frustration. "If I can't apologize, then you can't forgive me. It's that simple."

He looks up at me. "You want my forgiveness?"

"Just because what we had was fake doesn't mean I don't love you." I take a deep breath and step forward, resting one hand over his wrists in the cuff. "Don't you get it, Bucky? You can't do what I do for this long and not develop relationships with people. It's impossible. I'm a good spy - not a robot. Your… your feelings will always mean more to you, and I'm sorry for that, that I can't feel the same way about you. I do feel badly. I feel badly about the whole thing."

He is flushing deeply. The cuffs only allow for some wiggle room, but not much. He manages to reach his left hand where it crosses over his right to touch my hand, very lightly and carefully.

"You've never called me Bucky before."

"You always said that friends called you Bucky."

"I did."

"Listen to me," I touch his hand on my own. "I wouldn't go back and change it. I had a chance to see who you were. I could see that you were struggling. I didn't know how to help, but I wanted to. You do that when you care for someone."

I see his face grow cold, the light in his eyes hardening slightly. "I'm not just some new recruit that you used badly," he reminds me. "Remember Odessa. D.C. I'm a murderer and an assassin. I've killed people _you_ care about."

"You don't get to do that," I grip his hand harder now, and he tries to tug it away, but I hold firm. "You don't get to try and push me away - I'm in too deep, now. It's too late for you. I care for you. Bruce and I both do. In their way, so do the rest."

Thor and T'Challa notice the rising intensity of our voices, and begin to step forward.

"Do whatever it takes to get better," I say, jolting my chin towards T'Challa. "Do whatever he says to get this _thing_ out of you." I squeeze his hand again. "And then come home. Rejoin the team."

There's a long silence.

"I don't know if I can," Bucky whispers. "My… my home has only ever been wherever Steve was. I'd follow him anywhere."

"I only ask that you try," I urge. "You're part of us now."

"I don't know what it will take."

"We'll see you on the team again someday."

"I hope you're a patient woman."

"You know me," I say, giving him an unsure smile. "You're going to be okay, Barnes. I know you will."

"I wish I had your confidence."

"You don't need it. You have my friendship. I am asking you to accept it."

"I don't deserve anything from you. Not for a second."

I put my arms around him, giving him a polite embrace, kissing his cheek.

"It's not about what we deserve," I remind him. "This isn't _justice._ It's how love works. It's complicated and messy. It also comes with small print about forgiveness. As hard as it must be for you to forgive me for playing you like that…"

"Already done," he says way too quickly. "If that's what you want. You have my forgiveness."

"Then I forgive you too," I give him that tell-tale smile, and now he knows how surface-level it actually is. A smile of friendship, easily passed along. Nothing deeper.

"You know I can't accept that," he mutters.

"Since when have I ever accepted no for an answer?"

"Never, I guess."

"Okay, then, it's a deal," I grip his arms, fingers tightening. "Take care of yourself, Barnes." I release him quickly and turn to walk away.

"Wait, Nat..." he says, and chokes up a little, backtracks. I turn and give him a look of expectancy.

I'm warmed - and relieved - to see him give me a smile. A genuine one, but reserved. Not romantic in anyway, maybe nostalgic. Like seeing an old ex you have no feelings for anymore - trying on the friendship for size. No pet names.

"Give em hell, Romanoff," he says. "I'll see you later."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 **NEXT:** What is next for Peter Parker? Surely if he is going to seek out wisdom and advice, Deadpool is not the best person to talk to. Or maybe that's exactly what he needs.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Crystal and I realized we were both writing sad funeral scenes with heavy Wakanda content, but don't you worry, we exchanged ideas and chatted thoroughly throughout the entire process. Neither of us were ripping off the other, they're totally different contexts and environments! If you want to read her completely and totally AMAZING last chapter, what are you even still doing here?! Go check out the final chapters she has posted of her book "RIDERS IN THE SKY"! It's SERIOUSLY MIND BLOWING AND I CANNOT EVEN HANDLE HOW AMAZING THEY ARE. Be sure to keep an eye out for her next book "Hunted". Do us both a favor and add us to your "Author Alerts" and you'll get an email whenever we post!

* * *

 **Thank you forever and infinity to my beta Queen of Crystallopia, the one and only amazing Crystal. YOU ARE SERIOUSLY THE BEST FOR READING THROUGH MY PLOT BUNNIES AND FANGIRLING WITH ME. THANK YOU.**

* * *

 **UPDATE: The last chapter of WHERE THEY GO is nearly half-written already! Thanks for your patience!**

* * *

 **Review Replies**

Tightpants182 - oh my goodness, what a compliment! Thank you so much. I seriously love the story about your grandma's funeral. Thank you for sharing!

LoonyLovegood1981 - I am so glad you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading!

Starnight5 - Yup, there's plenty more of that PTSD stuff. I have PTSD so now I give ALL my characters PTSD, haha. It's just contagious in my writing I guess lol. XD Thank you so much for supporting and enjoying!

cargumentluv - I am so glad you enjoyed reading it, even with the sad bits. Thanks so much as always for your support.

* * *

...

* * *

 **Check out my other Avengers fics!**

 **INTO OBLIVION -** Peter Parker and his friends race across the galaxy to destroy an infinity stone before Thanos tracks them down. A new adventure across space staring Spider-Man and the Avengers loosely based on LORD OF THE RINGs.

 **Where They Go -** What happened to Peter Parker after the Thanos snap? This adventure takes you across space (AND TIME!) and reunites you with friends old and new in alternative universes where Peter tries to navigate a strange afterlife, trapped between dimensions!

 **The Vast Marvel -** Collections of Marvel one-shots - at least three entirely NEW drabbles have been posted here that do not exist anywhere else on this website! Cameos from Deadpool, the Defenders, Agents of Shield, and crazy dreams I've had set in the Marvel universe.

 **Down Came the Rain/Down Came the Rain Retold -** I wrote Down Came the Rain in a "Thirteen Reasons Why" style of flash forwards and flashbacks, with young Peter Parker being kidnapped and tortured by a rogue NYPD cop and the psychological results of his ordeal. Then I went back and rewrote in a chronological timeline, fixing a lot of plot holes, timing issues, character development, and essentially crafted a much finer story with a lot of the same plot and dialogue (with some new scenes entirely!)

 **Friends Across Dimensions -** This is purely self-insert crack with a glorious crossover between QueenofCrystallopia and myself. For a birthday Gift!Fic, I wrote a tale of Crystal and I falling into the Avengers universe to aid our heroes in a battle against her original creations, the Dravec aliens, from her amazing fic "Riders in the Sky". Hilarity and fantastic one-liners commenced.


	29. Epilogue

**Dearest Readers,**

 **Wow. I can't believe we're coming to an end on this story. It's been such a huge part of my heart since I started writing it last summer and I can't believe it's finally done. I am so overwhelmed by all your sweet reviews and your encouragement, and I hope you will still hang out with me here and join me on other stories in the future. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. This story has meant a lot to me, and I hope it has meant something to you too. Happy readings, as always.**

 **Love and goodbye (but only for now)**

 **Pip**

* * *

…

 **CHAPTER TWENTY NINE - Epilogue**

…

* * *

 **Celebration of Life _\- Tony Stark_**

* * *

...

The crowd begins to drift away and I'm goddamn relieved about it.

"Well," I say lightly, running my hands in a nervous, sweaty-palmed motion down my pantlegs, and drum a small _let's go_ beat on my knees. Rad-a-dum-dum. "That was nice. Let's go."

"Tony," Pepper sighs, giving me a look.

"Ms. Potts?"

She inclines her head towards Peter Parker, wandering back down the hill with his hands in his pockets, looking pale and glum. His Aunt is rising to meet him. They stop by Vision and Wanda, and Vision seems to be actively trying to engage them in conversation.

"What?" I ask, trying not to sound irritated.

"Go say hello."

"Already said hello."

"So," Ms. Potts smiles, "It's easier the second time around."

I hadn't talked to Vision much since he let the kid out of his sight and he got shot in the head. Maybe there's a strange part of me that still resents my invention-turned-Pinocchio for getting off scot-easy just because Peter ended up alive after all. Obviously I'd rather have him alive, but, I hadn't quite let go of the anger for his death yet. Because what if he hadn't? What if he _hadn't_ lived? We'd be here for two funerals.

Vision was careless and it was sheer dumb luck and Natasha Romanoff that kept the unimaginable from being permanent.

"Tony!" Pepper repeats. "You have to talk to him sometime. You're his boss."

"Fine," I get up and tug at my cuffs, adjusting the sleeves, and slide my sunglasses back on. I purposefully stride over towards them, but my path is quickly obstructed by Scott Lang.

"Lannister," I greet mildly.

"It's Lang," Scott replies confusedly. "You, uh, recognize me, right? Scott Lang? Ant Man? Newest and biggest Avenger?"

"How could I forget," I say, shaking his hand. I didn't forget. I'll stop pretending when he stops falling for it. "Glad you could make it."

"Well, I sort of didn't. I just got here. My flight was delayed. I missed the first part, anyway."

"Did your flight forget his sugar drink?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"I didn't ride _Gerald_ here. I flew. United."

"Who the fuck is Gerald?" Wade steps into the circle. "And why are we riding him?"

"I guess my vacation is over," I sigh.

Wade grins maniacally at me. "The bahamas are beautiful this time of year, boss."

" _Gerald_ is an ant," Scott interjects sheepishly. "Not quite fast enough for cross-country travel. So I flew on a plane like a normal person."

"If you'll excuse me," I say slowly. "I need to - uh - catch someone."

"Can we talk about the elephant in the room first?" Scott asks. He looks at Wade, as if expecting to be interrupted.

Wade squints. "It's too early for a joke. Go on."

"I just thought it was worth mentioning," Scott shrugs. "If you… if you guys need to talk. About, you know. What happened. Luis and I were involved in the beginning, getting the kid from prison and putting him with the bad guys. We've gone back and forth on this as to whether or not we should have… um…"

"What?" I ask shortly. "Told Cap to suck it?"

"Wow," Wade says, acting offended that I said _suck_ like a middle-aged mother.

"Not precisely like that," Scott says uncomfortably. "But… maybe. Yeah."

"The hardest part about all of this, is that Cap died with a big, fat mistake on his curriculum vitae that he'll never be able to apologize for, or undo." I take a deep breath and look away. "It doesn't lessen the honor that he died with - but…"

"We're left with the residual guilt," Wade says with a surprising amount of insight. "We get to handle it because Cap isn't here to. That's just our fucking luck. I say we just shoulder the shit and agree that it was a bad idea. Half of it was mine. Okay, like half of a quarter. And it's no thanks to _me_ that Peter Parker isn't lying dead in the ground today too. So. Let's just not play this game, eh?" he slaps Scott on the shoulder. "So, you gave the kid a ride to hell. So… remember I was the one that hired you to do it in the first place. You have a creepy ass van and I was like - bingo. Put Lang in charge of operation pick up. Cap agreed with me. So that's what we did. Now get over it. Move the fuck on. I know we are."

Scott smiles uncertainly. "Okay. If you, uh, insist."

"I do insist," Wade makes a butterfly motion with his hands, like a badly choreographed interpretive dance. "As the great Enya once put it, sail away." He sidles off, clearly done with the conversation.

As am I. I'm not ready for rehashing this. I did enough of it interrogating Bucky Barnes with Vision, and I hope to never do anything like that ever again.

I give Scott a sigh. "So. You coming, or what?"

"Oh. Yup. Yeah. Thanks."

We walk over to Peter, May, Vision and Wanda.

Peter greets Scott quite excitedly, and I can see Scott's face turn from apprehension to relief. May and Scott giving each other an acknowledging nod, though maybe May needed Wade's speech a little more than Scott or I did. Though she probably wouldn't have such a relaxed reaction.

"How's Luis?" I can hear Peter asking.

"He's really bummed about the van."

"What happened to the van?"

"Well, when he was driving it back to California…"

"Oh no…"

"It was just too old. It didn't make the trip. Died somewhere in Arkansas."

"Last road trip ever," groans Peter.

I turn away from them and give a pained smile to Vision and Wanda.

"Viz," I greet cordially. "Scarlet."

They both look a little uncertain. "Stark," Vision greets politely.

An awkward silence falls.

"What is this?" Wanda asks brashly, a bit of Sokovian accent slipping out on the _is._ Sounds more like _eez._ "Are you ever going to make up, or should we tiptoe around your toxicity for the remainder of the Avenger's existence?"

"Well said," I say, holding out my hand.

Vision visibly relaxes, and takes my outstretched hand. We shake.

"Past is in the past," I say. "I'd like it to stay back there. If at all possible."

"I couldn't agree more."

So that's it, then. Like Wade said, in the rarest moment of wisdom. _Move the fuck on._

That's all we can do. If it can't be Avenged, maybe it can be forgiven.

…

* * *

 **Small Talk _\- Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

If I thought being at the funeral was awkward, the reception afterwards is even worst.

There's nothing to divert our attention to - like a preacher, a gravesite, the wind in the trees or a disgraced Avenger spy watching from a distance.

All we have to focus on is each other.

I'm quickly finding out that none of these people know how to grieve. Not properly, anyway. They're heavy on the booze and feelings, light on the practicality.

I never thought I would think this, but having been through a perfectly ordinary death in the family and a funeral for Uncle Ben, we're more used to this ceremonial rite of passage than the rest of them.

They've never had to do this type of ordinary closure for an _Avenger_ before.

The picture of Captain America on the easel propped up by the bar counter is smiling blankly, eyeline directed uncomfortably in my direction.

I find myself looking away and wondering just how much trouble I'd _actually_ get into if I swiped something alcoholic. Just to give it a try.

I managed to never drink while working undercover for the Vulture and meeting in various seedy taverns and what-not across New York - and _this_ is what breaks the winning streak? It would not be worth the rage that Aunt May would then unleash, so I quickly stop entertaining those thoughts.

We're in the common room of the tower, the one with the bar, and the big windows. It's my first time here. To everyone else, it has a second-hand, comforting nature, like a living room that they're all used to. Sam Wilson puts a baseball game on the large flat-screen TV at one end, explaining that it's Cap's favorite team playing today. He watches and drinks his beer quietly, and eventually Wanda joins him, curious about the sports game she's not super familiar with. Apparently they didn't have baseball in Sokovia.

Sam starts to overly-explain how baseball works, but one glare from her quickly shuts him up. I think about joining them - just so I can sit on the couch - but I don't really want to watch baseball.

I just want to not be standing. I'm bone-exhausted, like just _thinking_ about a feather could knock me over.

Everyone stands in various circles around the room, drinking cocktails. A server stops by with a tray of finger foods, making rounds.

I got stuck - somehow - in an absolutely _silent_ circle between my aunt, Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, Dr. Banner, and Black Widow. Who I should probably stop calling by her spy moniker and actually say _Ms. Romanoff._ Part of me is _dying_ to ask her if Bucky was okay, and if she talked to him about what they're going to do in Wakanda, but I can't stand the thought of how embarrassing that would be if she didn't want to talk about it. And even worse, if she had to tell me in front of everyone else.

So I keep my mouth shut, chewing absently on a cucumber sandwich that tastes like dust in my mouth.

I wish MJ could have come. She had a test.

I still hadn't quite told her the whole story yet of… dying and coming back to life. That's a conversation better suited to in person.

Luckily, she knew I wasn't trying to be deceiving any longer. I called her this morning, trying to coax her one last time into coming to the funeral.

"I wasn't invited," she had reminded me, multiple times. "It's not like a wedding, you can't just plus-one to a _funeral._ Those are reserved only for people who knew him."

"I'll sneak you in."

"I'm not going to crash a funeral for Captain America," MJ had said sternly. "You know I'd… totally be into that for literally _anyone_ else. Just to mess with people. But not Captain _America._ "

"Okay… okay. I get that. I just wish you could be here."

"I have a test at the same time, too," she had said, her voice strained. School was really kicking her ass. "It's a, um, it's a big one. If I fail this…"

"You're not going to fail," I told her, over and over. "I'll call you after."

"Promise, Peter Parker?"

"Promise."

"So," Aunt May says amiably. "How do you feel about Peter working with you in your science labs?"

I snap back to the present. Oh my god. They are not going to talk about me while I'm standing _right here._

"He's probably going to be the best arachnid there," Mr. Stark says, the joke half-heartedly weak.

"Ha," I bark shortly.

"Hm, don't let Natasha hear you say that," Ms. Potts teases. She gives Aunt May a warm smile that seems to say _sorry about the boys._

Natasha has her back to us, listening in on something that Rhodes is saying. She looks at us over her shoulder, hearing her name. Dr. Banner gives her a sad smile, and she smiles at him back, before returning to her conversation with Rhodes.

Crazy, those two really are a thing. I never would have thought about it, but, it kinda works. They seem to really like each other.

I wonder if people will say that when they meet MJ. That we _kinda_ work, and seem to really like each other. If anything, maybe they'll say I clearly love her, and she only tolerates me.

"They won't shut up about Peter," Ms. Potts continues. "What was it? Best intern you ever had?"

"Oh _really,"_ Aunt May gives me a shit-eating grin.

"Geeze," I whisper. "This is embarrassing… please… "

"He's my favorite, that's for sure." Dr. Banner interjects, a little too loudly.

"How many have you had?" I ask confusedly.

"How many shots he took before we got here?" Tony Stark mumbles behind me, quickly cut short because Ms. Potts elbows him.

"Interns," I add quickly. "Not shots."

"Only… well, technically, you'll be intern number two. But that's not the point."

"So why am I your favorite?" I ask shyly.

"Well, you actually read my paper on gamma radiation effects," Dr. Banner says. "I don't suppose you'd like to try it in practice sometime."

"I… I did, once, for school." I say hesitantly, and before I know it, I'm starting to gush. "I was thinking maybe even trying it again, but testing it on vibranium infected _with_ bacteria. Uh. Uh, a safe bacteria. To… uh… see if we could make a metal alloy responsive to specific DNA. Like how some germs are more responsive to certain… people. It's uh. Not really put together, in my head."

Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner glance at each other.

Aunt May blinks. "I know I'm raising a genius but sometimes you just leave me way, way behind. I'm getting a water. Anyone want any water? Pepper? Awkward geniuses?"

We all shake our heads.

"I think I'll join you," Pepper catches a weird look from Tony, and motions Aunt May to follow her. "Tap is over here."

"Did I say something wrong?" I ask confusedly.

"No more decapitated Nat," Mr. Stark smirks. Dr. Banner snorts.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Not what it sounds like." Mr. Stark says quickly.

"Sorry," Dr. Banner adds, "It sounds… uh… insensitive, but…"

"It's just a phrase we've used for how dangerous Cap's shield is when it works…" Mr. Stark swallows back present-tense. " _Worked…_ like a returning boomerang. It doesn't _answer_ to anyone else, but maybe Cap wants someone to catch it… _shit._ " Mr. Stark shivers, like someone just told him a gross story. "Hell, I'm never going to get used to this."

Dr. Banner's brows furrow. It's hard for him too.

Mr. Stark straightens his shoulders and tries again. "If we want to replicate a tool like Steve's shield, we don't want to revisit the same problems - which was - Steve couldn't throw it to another person. They wouldn't be able to catch it - it would do something perfectly awful, instead, like, decapitate them."

"Oh," I say softly. "I get it now. Gotcha."

"You may be the key to finding out way through a problem we've been working on for some time," Dr. Banner says. "Responsive metals, like the Captain's shield but… more versatile." He gives me a short glance, and then smiles again. "And all because you complimented my thesis work. Smart."

"Ergo favorite," Mr. Stark says.

"Thanks," I say calmly. Usually compliments from them - my _heroes,_ no less - would make me blush and die (again) and crawl underneath the nearest rug. But I have to stop thinking about them like people I idolize and more like people that I'm going to work with. People that I'll need to earn respect from in the science world, not just in the superhero world.

I pause when I see Deadpool take a painfully obvious shot of some amber liquid from a flask, and then he turns and ducks around a long, gray curtain partially shrouding the entrance to one of the many balconies of this building. He looks like he's ready to jump off said balcony and do some damage. Either to himself or other people.

"Can you excuse me for a second?" I ask politely. "Sorry, I'll be right back."

Vanessa is standing close to where Deadpool was, holding a small handbag in her hands and watching the room with a sort of sad, casual observance.

"Hi Peter," she says kindly when she sees me approaching.

"Hi," I say. "Um. I was wondering. Where…"

"Where Wade went?" she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the curtains. "Through there. He might not be there."

"It's not exactly an… exit," I say slowly.

"Wade can make an exit out of anything," Vanessa answers. "Although I did make him promise a long time ago he would never use his temporary suicides as a way to cope with bad days - only for dire situations with enemies at hand."

"Does he just want to be left alone?" I ask politely.

"I'm sure he does," Vanessa replies. "But I think he should make an exception for you."

"I don't want to bother him…"

"No, please," Vanessa smiles. "Bother him. I give you permission."

"If you're sure…"

"Listen, Peter," Vanessa grows serious for a moment. "He _does_ feel responsible for Steve's death. And for every moment you were in danger doing - well, whatever it was that he and the Captain were asking you to do. It might do him some good to remind him that you're still around." She smiles again and inclines her head. "You're one of the good ones, Peter Parker. And God knows that Wade needs people like you around to balance him out."

…

* * *

 **Best Medicine _\- Wade Wilson_**

* * *

...

I manage to hide on a balcony for my private moment of unrestrained, manly grief for only a hot three seconds, when I am interrupted by Peter.

I pause in mid-sob, swallowing it quickly, and looking up at the sky. "Let me get back to you on that, Cap," I say obnoxiously. "I'll give you the prepared speech of how life isn't fair and everything."

"I'm sorry," Peter says, subdued. "Vanessa said that I should probably interrupt you."

"Let me tell you a little joke," I say, snuffling way too loudly and wiping my nose on the back of my hand, looking awkwardly away from Peter as he leans over the balcony railing beside me. "It goes _KNOCK KNOCK -_ oh wait. You don't get that. There's the joke. You're interrupting my raw, Oscar-snubbed sadness. I'm about to start singing something hopeful from a musical any minute now."

Peter gives me a look, reaches behind us, and knocks on the wall beside the patio door briefly. "Look, there, I knocked," he says shortly.

"That was actually funny. All right, you're forgiven." I turn around and lean my sore back against the railing, ignoring the view, and crossing my arms over my chest. "So what'd you come out here for? Checking to see if I threw myself off?"

"I know you wouldn't. You promised Vanessa."

"This conversation you had with her was very informative. Did she also tell you we're trying to make a baby?"

"Um… I didn't really need to know that… but… that's cool." His eyes light up a little. "That's… that's great. Congratulations. Wow." He sobers quickly though. "Can I ask you a personal question? Like really personal?"

"Like, gynecologist level of personal? Or just general?"

"God, no. Just. I'm wondering about the cancer thing. If it seems weird to have a kid, or try to have a kid, knowing you might… you know."

"You _really_ do keep forgetting my super powers protect me from dying."

"No, I remembered that, but…" Peter pauses.

I make a _Chandler waiting for Joey to get the joke_ look.

"Oh," Peter exclaims.

"There it is!" I respond gleefully.

"I kept thinking it just repairs your injuries," Peter smacks his forehead. "I wasn't thinking about the part where it keeps you from _death_ of any kind. Including disease. I forget that the same stuff you had is what saved me, too."

"I'm still shocked you know about that… well, maybe shocked isn't the right word - maybe fucking irritated that Stark even mentioned it…"

"Not his fault. I was eavesdropping." Peter holds out his hands guiltily, a sheepish smile on his face. "Spider on the wall?"

"Finally," I sigh. "It's about fucking time you got to do something Spider-Manny."

"I'm not supposed to know that Black Widow saved my life," he says quietly. "I wish there was a way I could thank her without giving it away that I know. I almost said something, at the funeral, but she was really wanting to talk to Bucky. So. I guess it's better I just keep pretending. Right?"

Spider-Manny... Or Spider-Nanny. I can just see it now. An alternative universe in which there is a super nanny television show where Spider-Man has to nanny three demon children…it would be a hit. I've _got_ to pitch this to Sony.

"Have you ever had issues with the cancer-thing, even with super-powers?" Peter asks, misinterpreting my silence.

"Is that a polite way of asking if I have post traumatic stress disorder because now that _you_ have it, you're gracefully trying to figure out if you're alone in this or if the rest of us feel sorta fucked up too?"

"Uhh…"

"Short answer? Yes. We _all_ have a little PTSD. Post traumatic Steve's Death is just the latest edition. We've upgraded."

Peter rests his chin in his hand, looking out over the city. The late afternoon light is swiftly turning dark gold and white out west.

"Why do you think I use humor to deflect human relationship and the pain that goes with it?" I ask slowly.

Peter gives me a startled look. "I… I don't know."

"Ever heard of Peter Sellers? The Pink Panther?"

"I thought Steve Martin was the Pink Panther."

I make a horrified gasp in my throat, and pretend to gag. "Jesus _Christ_ we need to educate you. NO. Steve Martin was a REMAKE. And not a good one, may his silver-white hair someday grace me with it's presence. I'm talking _Peter Sellers._ One of the greatest."

"I don't know."

"During a Muppets bit he told - wait, you know what those are, don't you?"

Peter gives me a dazed look. "I know who the Muppets are. Where is this going exactly?"

"Peter Sellers told Kermit he couldn't do an interview as himself because; and I quote; _there's never been a Me. I've had myself surgically removed."_

Peter grimaces.

"That's precisely what Kermit did. Anywho. The point being - maybe there was no point, and I just really wanted to tell you that story."

"I'm sure somewhere you had a point," Peter sighs. "Maybe you just lost it on the way. Try retracing your steps."

"All right, smart ass." I pop my knuckles. "We're super heroes, right? We've done a lot of shit. Got a lot of shit done to us. Waded through it. Made emojis out of it. Everyone's got a Thing. I think Wanda is a little more than clinically depressed. Stark drinks too much. Steve used to draw, like, weird architecture and cartoons. Loved them, but, let's face it. He's no DiCaprio."

"I think you mean Da Vinci."

"Everyone has a schtick, Petey. I learned something from the great Peter Sellers. He made his life one big fucking impersonation and comedy routine that he literally lost his identity."

"That's really sad."

"I mean, yeah, sure, if you look at it that way. I decided a long time ago that I can accomplish _half_ of that, I'd be happy."

"Lose yourself?" Peter asks, bewildered.

"No, no, not _myself,_ there's nothing else like me, I'd rather keep myself close by, thanks," I say quickly. "Naw, I mean, when I got cancer, I figured out how I was going to manage my shit. Surgically. I cut the bad stuff out and keep the funny bits."

"Oh. I see."

"Everyone has their own pain management skills and I realized a long fucking time ago that I'd rather spend my short time on this earth laughing my ass off or making other people do it than anything else. People will say it's unhealthy to not deal with your shit head on but I say it's a little more than that. If you can get rid of toxic relationships in your life, that goes for mental topics too. If you don't want something shitty in your life, don't let it in your life. It's that simple. Change the subject. Leave a room. Give it an ultimatum. Do what _ever_ it takes."

I slap his shoulder. "Get it, Petey? Get those surgical tools out, because the shit show is coming. I realize I've thrown a _lot_ of metaphors at you for this speech. You've kept up _really_ well. And what did we learn, class?"

"Don't be overwhelmed by the bad stuff in life and let PTSD rule over it? Find a way to be proactive and happy against all odds?" Peter asks, hopefully.

"I mean, sure, or go to a bar and stay there for so long that you just pee right where you're sitting at the bar when you're thirty-four cocktails in."

"I don't think I'd survive that."

"That's the point," I say darkly, shaking his shoulder a little. "I nearly didn't. It took a bit of an intervention. Get it?"

"I do."

"Cool. Well," I shrug back and wipe my hands together like a pleased chef. "Maybe I don't suck at this after all."

"You're going to be a great dad someday," Peter replies.

I open my mouth to respond, but shut it again.

"Well, fuck you," I respond loudly. "Here come the waterworks." I turn quickly away so I can jab a hand into my eye and prevent the escaping saltwater from the sadness factory.

"You're welcome," Peter mutters behind me, with a smile on his face.

...

* * *

 **Great Power _\- Peter Parker_**

* * *

...

"What did I tell you about stealing my intern?" Tony Stark steps onto the balcony, holding the door open slightly behind him. "No more secret crime solving. Only science from now on."

"Yeah, well, science boy, explain this shit," Deadpool points at the tears running down his face. "My orifices have sprung oil leaks."

"Huh, Deadpool crying. That's a first." Mr. Stark looks genuinely surprised, and doesn't push him for reasons. "Your aunt is looking for you," he says to me. "She looks like she's ready to call it a night."

"I'll meet her downstairs I guess," I respond, with a hesitant look at Wade. "I guess we can always resume our moving conversation about Muppets tomorrow."

Mr. Stark looks totally lost, but slightly delighted that I'm making jokes.

"Before you go," Wade says, with a look at Mr. Stark. "Should we do the thing?"

"What thing?"

"The dance routine."

"Oh, right, that thing," Mr. Stark ducks back into the room, pulls something small and white from the closest table where Vanessa was standing. He pops back through the door, chucking a white box at me.

My reflexes and Spider-sense instinctively catch the box from sailing over the balcony railing as fast as a lizard tongue, darting out in a blur and holding the box to my chest. "What's this?" I ask. "Is this for me?"

"It's a red rider BB gun, Ralphie," Wade drones. "Just fucking open it!"

I confusedly open the box, flipping the lid up and looking inside.

It's my web shooters.

Not just any old web shooters - they are my originals, but they've clearly been upgraded. I recognize the Stark tech, cleaning up the exposed wires I had on my old ones, including holographic read outs of the different settings, and straps for attaching them to the Spider-suit.

"Wow," I gasp. "This is… this is… wow. I don't even know what to say. This like like the coolest thing _ever._ " I stop gushing for a moment, closing the box and holding it carefully to my stomach like a precious thing. "Um. What if… what if I'm not quite ready to be Spider-Man again?"

"No one can tell you when the right time is, if there ever is one," Mr. Stark says firmly. "That's just for you," he pats the top of the box. "You'll know when it's okay and there's no pressure otherwise."

Suddenly my phone rings loudly in my pocket, and I flinch way too hard with surprise.

"I think your jumpiness wears off, too, once you've had a little time," Mr. Stark says, looking a little concerned.

"How about some practical advice?" Wade asks.

My phone blares loudly again.

"Start by changing your damn ringtone," Wade adds. "To a sound you _weren't_ hearing when you were working for the Vulture."

"Right, obviously, yes," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "Duh. I should have done that before."

Wade and Mr. Stark share a knowing look, as if to usher each other out and give me a moment of privacy.

"Thank you," I repeat. "Thank you for my web shooters. It's… amazing. I don't even know what else to say."

"Just answer the phone," Wade replies. "Let us end our last scene on a high note, okay? I've got a girlfriend and some slow jazz I'd like to take advantage of."

Mr. Stark practically pushes him back inside, and quickly slides the door shut behind him. "See you on the other side, kid," he says fondly, just before it clicks shut.

I missed the call, so I quickly redial and watch with a childish fascination as Michelle's face pops up on my screen. I finally found an old photo of her from the decathlon days on our old school website, and saved it as her caller ID. It will have to do until she lets me take a picture of her with my phone. Maybe tomorrow.

She finally answers. "Hey," she says tiredly.

"Hey you," I say, slouching at the railing with one elbow braced, cupping my chin in my hand. "What are you doing right now?"

"Living the dream," she laughs, sarcastically.

"What's the dream, exactly?"

"Ha. Homework, what else is new. Tell me what you're up to."

"Well, I'm, um, talking to you, for one thing. So. Living the dream."

"You're such a softie. Go on."

"I'm watching the sunset."

"That's romantic."

"I mean… it _would_ be. If you were here."

"Can I put this on my list of things I'm going to be requiring of you as my boyfriend?" she asks. "Watching a sunset from the top of Avengers Tower is going on that list."

"Let's make it priority one." I say, grinning sheepishly. "Tomorrow."

"That soon, huh? Easy. We'll make it through everything in my list."

"How long is it?!"

"That's… the only thing so far."

"We'll add a few more."

"I'm game. So. I just called to say hi really quick, make sure you were doing okay after the funeral today. Those are… not easy."

"I'm okay now. Better than I was. I'll tell you more tomorrow. I have a _lot_ to tell you."

"Is that a promise, Peter Parker?"

"No secrets, remember? You're going to get sick of hearing about everything."

"I doubt that. But. I have to get back to my study guide. I have _another_ big fat test tomorrow morning."

"And it's a date tomorrow night."

"Yup, tomorrow it is." I hear her smile into the phone. "I think I I love you, Peter Parker."

"I know," I reply, using a Star Wars reference. I know she gets it.

I hear a slight chuckle. "Don't you forget it."

The call ends.

I tuck my phone in my pocket. I can't wait to show her around… show her off. This crazy girl that likes someone like _me._ With all my insecurities and the baggage I come with. It's hard to remember that the baggage is from the _work_ of it. The pain of pretending to be okay with all of this in front of people like the Vulture, Jackson Brice…

Someone I would never admit that I miss. I don't. Maybe I do.

The complication being that it's impossible to not miss something that I was so entirely _used_ to. Acclimated to - even if I didn't like it.

I shake my head. I don't want to get sucked in again - those feelings are done. I'm done with them, with all of them. _I've had myself surgically removed,_ I remember, and I fight a giggle. In his own very weird way, Wade Wilson is really… helpful.

 _Higher,_ a voice seems to tug at the back of my brain. The same sort of juvenile voice that I remember egging me on when I first got my powers, my mind's own sense of excitement - of freedom. That feeling that I was now super strong, fast, and agile - I could finally run from people bigger than me. Bullies and stuff.

Except I didn't have to outrun them at all. Now I could fight back.

 _So?_ My brain says. _Fight back now._

I haven't climbed a wall - on purpose - since Andre and I left the tavern that night, introducing me to Jackson Brice. I was too paranoid about getting caught, so I didn't. I was probably out of practice when I leapt off the building to try and catch Cap... to keep Steve Rogers from falling and hitting the pavement below.

 _Out of practice, out of practice._ My brain starts to push these words into the forefront.

I shrug my shoulders and look at the sheer wall of metal and glass above the balcony, and the small ledge several stories in the air.

"Or not," I say out loud.

 _Change the subject. Leave a room. Give it an ultimatum. Do whatever it takes._

"Whatever it takes," I say, putting the web shooters on my wrists, clicking them into place, testing the strap durability and flexing my hands. They feel good.

I put one hand above the door, pushing one foot off of the railing, and then putting the other hand above the other. Walking each hand over, one right after another, till I've cleared the doorway.

 _Out of practice, maybe they won't stick, your feet won't stick either… do my powers even work through shoes? Have you done this with shoes before? What if you slip and fall?_

It doesn't work as well with shoes, but like with rock climbing, they still support some weight, but they don't stick. Not like my hands, which I'm more sure of than ever before. I clear an entire floor without barely noticing. In a blink, I'm looking through windows to labs above. A weapons lounge. A conference room. The penthouse office floor. Something fancy - maybe an apartment for Mr. Stark? I try not to observe too closely as I pass each floor. These are private. I'm just passing by.

And it's easier than I thought. I take a moment to check my surroundings - I've made it a few stories up, that much closer to the _very_ top of the roof. The New York skyline is a blaze of fiery glory for all of a second, but I manage to look at it _just_ as the sun drops.

Finally swallowing the bright light, the horizon is replaced by a relaxed, molten lavender color, pastel and breezy.

I keep climbing up, finally reaching the edge and hooking my elbow over, followed by swinging a leg up, and then the next. I roll off onto the roof, standing up and brushing myself off. That went really - way better than expected. First time I've climbed up a skyscraper in - who the heck knows.

I sit back on the ledge and let my legs dangle. I keep thinking about how the work I was doing… this spy mission for Captain America… how that got me here. But I keep forgetting that's also how the Vulture and the rest ended up there - metaphorically, out there - somewhere in prison and awaiting extensive criminal trials. Because of the hard work I put into this. The microprocessors were recovered. Hydra is scattered. The Vulture's entire illegal manufacturing company has been shut down - the crews arrested, even a few jobs in progress across the seaboard interrupted and taken down.

The city sleeps a little safer tonight.

I take a deep breath, feeling the cooling night air seeping into my lungs and out again. I'm here. _I'm_ safe. So are the people that I love.

I have a tomorrow on a horizon. For once I'm not afraid of it.

I listen to the soundtrack of the city below, the music of traffic. A few horns blare. Car engines. The streets, lamps flickering on in the falling light. A few stars erupt in the lavender twilight. I hear the busy movements, the tapestry of New York bustling down a typical nightlife with her occupants… the good, and the bad. Let the rats scurry into the darkness. Let them try to hide for now.

 _Thwp._ I press the mechanism on the shooter and watch a stream of web fly off into the sky. My heart pounds with excitement. A long-forgotten rush of adrenaline cascades through my ribs, a huge grin erupting across my face.

Hey, neighborhood.

Did you miss me?

…

…

* * *

...

 **THE END**

…

* * *

…

...

* * *

...

Dearest Readers,

I wrote, supposedly, a great farewell speech and I thought I saved it in another document but, tis nowhere to be found. Ironically I lost my farewell speech for "Where They Go" as well. Alas. This is of course dedicated to my wonderful readers and my amazing beta QueenofCrystallopia, she's such a rockstar who fangirled over every chapter and inspired me to keep working on this. She is one of the best people I know, and if I can repay her at all for all the love and energy she spent beta'ing for me, I would. At least let's start with recommending her highly! I can't say it enough! She's awesome! Please go check out her amazing stories, especially the CMFU (Crystal's Marvel Fanfiction Universe) series, starting with Paint It Black, Silent Night, Riders in the Sky, and most recently, Hunted. And to all of you, I say, wow, I can't appreciate you enough, I just can't say it enough. I will try to say it a bit more, however, though personal review replies at the end. As usual :)

Thank you again for riding this crazy train with me.

Pip

...

* * *

 **Personal Review Replies**

Starnight5 - You are seriously the sweetest. Thank you. I'm so sorry the aura description made you feel sickly! I had just experienced one myself for the very first time and I had to purge those nasty feelings and put it in my story! lol. Thank you for your wonderful reviews, as always. Hope to see you more soon

curry-llama - That's so sweet of you giving it a whole are too amazing and one of the best reviewers ever! Thank you SO much!

EleanorGardner - you are such a sweet heart, thank you so much for your kind reviews, they just make my day. I am so glad you enjoyed my story.

LoonyLovegood1981 - OMG thank you so much! You are so kind! Really we love this so much, Crystal and I love this stuff because of sweet, kind people like you. It makes us WANT to write more! Thank you for your support, you are wonderful.

cargumentluv - Thank you so much for your review! I am so happy you enjoyed my lil book. Thank you again and again.

Sakura-Fiction - OMG your review seriously made my life. So thoughtful how you went through each part and commenting on each thing - like, wow, that is the kindest possible way to make me feel totally loved. And I LOVE YOU TOO XD Thank you so much for your dedicating reading. Wow. I'm just so grateful.

DaWriter06 - I am so glad you enjoyed, thank you so much for reviewing! I really appreciate it!

* * *

 **Other Marvel Stories**

* * *

 **In Progress:**

Into Oblivion - A *new* AU story. Peter Parker's uncle left him an infinity stone, and he'll have to do whatever it takes to get it off planet and destroy it before Thanos can return. Epic, galaxy wide adventure starring many other Avengers and based on The Fellowship of the Ring.

Sakaar and Away - not posted yet, but keep an eye out for this one. Peter and Aunt May are captured by the Grandmaster, and Peter will do whatever it takes to survive Sakaar, rescue Aunt May, and get home! (Another AU)

 **Posting on:**

The Departed - a repost of Avenge the Departed in a different Avengers category to try and reach more audiences! I just can't let this baby go yet!

The Vast Marvel - collection of Marvel one shots! I suggest adding this story to an "alert" for when I post short drabbles!

 **Done:**

Deadpool is Pissed - humorous one shot featuring Deadpool, Peter Parker, and Korg!

Down Came the Rain Retold - a rewritten and repost of an old fic, and may I say, the far superior version. Told chronologically, scenes are added and expanded, plot holes and timelines fixed, characterization added... easier to read, track with. Plot and character growth is more obvious. Peter is kidnapped by a rogue NYPD cop and is tortured for information on the Avengers. He deals poorly with the psychological aftermath.

That One Time Peter Parker Accidentally Did Cocaine - yup, based on another crazy dream I had. One shot. Title is exactly how it sounds haha. Peter does drugs, and his totally (alive!) Dad is not happy about it - for more reasons than one. Tony Stark is even worse.

Give Me the Words - Leopold Fitz wakes out of a coma and realizes that Grant Ward took away the one thing he needs the most - his ability to communicate. Coming to grips with the damage of his brain injury. Agents of Shield, season 2 or 3, I think. Canon tags.


	30. Sequel Announcement & SNEAK PEAK

**DEAR AMAZING READERS,**

 **I am writing a SEQUEL. I didn't think I ever would! Endgame broke me so thoroughly I thought I wouldn't even be able to write Marvel fan fiction. But then I had an idea that I just couldn't shake. And then my imagination dropped me back into this world without a parachute and the ideas exploded and... Wow. What a ride this will be. I wanted to post the first section of the sequel, just keep you all informed that it is being written. Because, like this one, it's a complicated plot (with twists and turns!) I will write the whole thing before I begin posting. Just to make sure there aren't any gaping plot holes. But since you're all the best readers EVER, I thought I should definitely give you a "sneak peak". Typical ratings apply - VERY GRAPHIC VIOLENCE! And below, I will also post responses to the reviews from the last chapter, since there wasn't a way to really communicate them before without posting an "author's note" in place of a chapter, which usually someone reports and fanfiction will make you get rid of it. So scroll down for more personal notes, and I hope you are all as excited as I am. This is going to be one crazy sequel.**

 **Love, Pip**

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 **Judgments - _Kingpin_**

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My city sleeps uneasily tonight.

I can feel unsettled hurry off traffic beneath the FDR, night prowlers on the sidewalks shrouded in green hues from a streetlight.

The smell of blood teems in the rainwater, the trash in the ditch. A car horn plays music too loudly, passing by.

I imagine if bleeding has a sound, it would be the strains of a violin. Red and keening.

The man kneeling in front of me has been beaten nearly to unconsciousness, but still, his awareness clings. His hands are folded, and he prays to me. Sooner or later they all do.

"Please," the man gurgles. "Please, give me more time. I can do it. I swear."

I jolt my head in the direction of the black sedans parked on either side of him, the motors idling.

"NO!" the man screams, the pitch of his voice cascading heavenward.

"This is your judgment," I whisper to him. "I will not be disappointed by you again."

"No - please! _PLEASE!"_

The cars gun their engines, shooting forward. The chains curled up on either side of the man begin to unravel. The speeds increase, the coils unwind - one padlocked tight around the man's ankles, the other around his praying hands.

The chains pull taught when they run out of length, for only a brief moment, the car tires spin in the gravel of the lot. I watch unflinchingly as the man's scream is wrenched apart, his body torn in half.

Without resistance, the cars peel away for a half-second, before slamming on their brakes. Lengths of chain running the length of the lot behind them, each with a partial body lying still behind them.

"Burn the pieces," I instruct my men to my right.

They look sickened. _Weak._

I turn towards them, and notice many of them averting their gazes.

 _New blood,_ I think. _Toby Davidson. Bran Vumak. Phineas Mason._ Their names come easily to me now, but that shall fade. They won't be with us long.

"Look at him," I command quietly.

Hesitantly, they do. Mason takes longer than the rest.

"This is not just violence," I remind them. "This is a metaphor. For all of you. When you have a job - this city relies on you. I rely on you. If your work is not completed, if I find it haphazardly done... you're not what you promised me. I hire the man, not his promises."

I indicate the bloodied torso covered in gravel, the links still padlocked tight around ankles. "Give me half of your promises, and I will deal in equal measure."

A half promise is half a man.

"You are worth nothing when you do not follow through on your word," I continue. "This city will not mourn your loss when you do not contribute. The city deserves more than petty assurances and half-baked schemes. This city needs a firm hand, and greater judgment. Who are we to leave this city in filth and rot? The very infrastructure of all we hold dear relies on us. Do not forget this."

"Yes, sir," Mason mumbles respectfully. "We understand."

"Good," I reply. "Because you have spoken first, you will be given keys to the kingdom. Remember. There is no reward when you die. There is only what you can build on this earth. Please me, and I will give it to you."

"Yes, sir."

"Bran, bring the car around."

"Right away, sir!"

I open my fist and flex my fingers, then close them again. Feel the muscles ache, my hands still hungry for violence. Blood lust satiated for only a moment. In time.

"I am late to dinner with my wife."

...

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 ****END OF THE SNEAK PEAK OF THE SEQUEL!****

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 **WHAT SHOULD I NAME THE SEQUEL? I was going to just call it AVENGE THE DEPARTED II. Keep it simple. But then I started thinking about it more and we could go another direction. Like... REVENGE OF THE DEPARTED. Too much? XD I'm just going to call it Avenge the Departed II unless I hear multiple voices begging for a different title because this one is just too easy. :)**

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...

 _PERSONAL REVIEW REPLIES_

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Nywroc - Your wish is my command! The possibilities were ZERO when I finished this, and now they are 200 percent. Work in progress. Thank you so much for joining and supporting my story.

Sakura-Fiction - YOU ARE TOO KIND! You are such a delight and I am so grateful you're one of my readers. Thank you for all your compliments, you're seriously amazing and your support means so much!

Shannon O'Gorman - I am so glad you enjoyed, thank you SO much for reading. A sequel is in the works! I'll give you some reading to do soon!

Guest - thank you so much for reading! I appreciate it!

blueflame4676 - Well good news, sequel is coming! lol! I appreciate your compliments and support so much, it means a lot. Thank you!

colorchanger - oh my god, what a compliment, thank you so much. I'm fangirling over your review. Bless.

Queen of Crystallopia - WOULDN'T BE HERE WITHOUT YOU. I mean that. Seriously. You inspire me so much. Thank you so much for all your kind words and your encouragement and the listening ear and everything. LOVE YOU! FRUIT BATS 5EVER.

cargumentluv - Thank you so much for coming on this lil journey! Hope you'll join us for the next ride! Thank you so much for your review.

DaWriter06 - thank you so much for being a part of this and for reviewing. It means so much.

curry-llama - I appreciate your consistent reviews so much, it means so much to me and encourages me and helps fuel my creativity! Seriously thank YOU!

Tightpants182 - Oh my goodness wow thank you so much, I am so glad you finally saw the movie and that you appreciated the changes I made. What a huge compliment, I'm always trying to be true to the characters. Thank you.

LoonyLovegood1981 - Thank you for joining this journey and being so consistent! I means so much to see those reviews, so seriously, thank you.


	31. SEQUEL SNEAK PEAK II

**Hello dearest amazing readers,**

 **I wanted to give you a status update and a second SNEAK PEAK of the sequel novel, Avenge the Departed II. You guys have been so lovely and patient, and I hoped to show you I haven't forgotten about you or this story. I've been working on it. As you know this first one was a massive beast to write and took me a LONG time. This one, I think, may take even longer, as it is a looser adaptation of a spy thriller and I'm writing a lot more "original" material to supplement scenes that just don't belong in the Marvel universe. Basically it's even more than my usual "transcription" of a previous movie or show and rewritten into the Marvel universe. But enough about process, let's talk numbers! How many chapters written so far: EIGHT! How many POV changes (sections) per chapter? 2-4. So TECHNICALLY, 23 short chapters are written so far. Who is the first POV? Kingpin. Who is the last POV I wrote at the end of chapter eight? Tony Stark. What's my favorite character to write dialogue for? Still Deadpool haha. Who is a NEW character for this series who gets a POV in the sequel who didn't appear in the first book? Karen Page, from Daredevil! How many chapters can I expect for this book? I'm thinking anywhere from twenty-five to fifty. Lots of fun stuff going on.**

 **How likely am I to write a third book?**

 **Super, super high.**

 **Enjoy the sneak peak, and know that I love you all.**

 **Sincerely, Pip**

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 **Pom Pom - _Peter Parker_**

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...

The sun has already risen with icy gold light as we drive across town in tense silence, except for the moments where Mr. Stark spontaneously reviews the plan, again.

"Wait for a name," he reminds us both, "Something more we can use. Mason's word against theirs just isn't enough for the U.N.'s blessing to keep pushing this issue forward, otherwise there's nothing more we can do except call in a tip to the NYPD like anyone else."

"Bull shiiiit," sings Deadpool to himself. "Sort of hoping for a house of M sort of reboot thing with no Sokovia accords. Anyone up for renegotiating their contract?"

"I just signed the accords," I remind Deadpool.

"Don't worry, little buddy," Deadpool reaches up and pats my shoulder. "No ones contract is more high-risk than yours."

"Huh?"

Wanda's voice appears in the radio again. "We're getting off the bus. Viz?"

"Right behind you, my dear," Vision replies.

Mr. Stark snorts with a sort of pleasant surprise. "We're at the pet-name stage, are we?"

"Shut uuup," whispers Wanda, sounding very much like a sibling caught stealing cookies from the jar.

"My apologies, that was unprofessional of me," Vision says.

"Not you," Wanda replies, a laugh under her tone. "The boss."

"No, we don't mind, Vision," I say quickly, glaring at Mr. Stark. His lips are pursed with an amused smile.

Deadpool makes an OK sign with one hand and then thrusts his pointer finger through repeatedly.

"Stop that," I hiss.

"Did you and Dr. Bruce build Vision with anatomically correct parts?" Deadpool stage-whispers. "Doesn't anyone else wonder - IF… like is it, morally acceptable or not? What is the Avengers official stance on robot sex, exactly?"

"I can hear you," Wanda reminds him. "I would appreciate you do not speak on the topic of what is morally acceptable, as you can offer no perspective that would interest me or have any value. Mason is going into the building - Vision?"

"I'll phase through the wall around the back, get a better look."

Mr. Stark pulls the car to the curb about three blocks away. "I'm going up in the suit for thermal visuals," he reminds us, "You two. Get close, but stay low. Do not go in. Let's use audio, visual first. This doesn't need to end in a fight."

I nod.

"Say you understand," Mr. Stark says firmly, zeroing in on me.

"I understand?" I repeat, wondering why he seems ultra focused on making sure that I know how to follow instructions. Like I'm not the one just dressed as a civilian expected to wait down the street for something bad to happen to everyone…

"Good," Mr. Stark exits the vehicle, glares at Deadpool. "You watch his back, you got it?"

"I've got him firmly in hand," Deadpool replies. Mr. Stark nods at us both, unfolds his wrist brace again, darts between two mortar-brick apartment buildings.

I grimace, opening my door. "Come on."

Within seconds, the streamlined echo of a jet engine rattles the heavy clouds somewhere above, and an unnatural hot breeze kicks out of the alley with a puff of dust that smells like car oil and clean chrome. I can hear the nearly-indistinguishable sound of Iron Man lifting high out of the alley, swooping around the long way and beginning to hover over the location from the otherside where he can watch without being seen himself. Someone would definitely see him, though, luckily they'd likely probably just stream it to Facebook or Instagram. They don't exactly broadcast his appearances to criminal networks. Though if they were smart, they'd be watching that hashtag constantly to pinpoint where we are. I know I would, if I were still supposed to be a criminal…

The thought makes me shiver.

I lift my hood up, shutting the door, and wait for Deadpool. He struggles with a sword pommel catching in the car ceiling because he didn't duck low enough to exit. He finally slides out as if made of putty.

"You look… really obvious," I say, "It's broad daylight."

The air is brisk and clear-bright, a smell like pre-Thanksgiving Macy parade on the air with a hint of apple cider and wet pavement.

"What? You think this is only for night time? That's a totally different suit. A lot more lace involved." Deadpool shuts his door. "We cut through these alleys here - they connect at the back. That'll keep prying street eyes off - happy?"

"Good enough for now, I guess," I shrug, following him beneath the shadows of the buildings. My phone vibrates, and I see Ned's icon. I quickly answer.

"I can't really talk right now," I whisper.

"Dude," Ned whispers in a panic, "I don't know how to tell you this, but I got the email with instructions for part two of my… internship."

I remember being paranoid about the CIA listening on my calls with Captain America when I was undercover. I wonder if Ned's being paranoid enough.

"Ned, what if they're listening in?" I whisper. Deadpool's head jerks back and looks at me over his shoulder. I wave at him annoyingly as if to try and say it's nothing.

Wait - does he have super-hearing like me? I've never asked. If he does, he can hear all of this.

"I don't think it matters," Ned hisses. "Because I'm not going to do it."

Deadpool and I hang another right-hand turn, deeper into the block interior. I can smell urine and trash in the alley, small dead patches of grass growing up between slabs and huge, metal-blue dumpsters lining the chain-link fences. The pleasant smell from earlier quickly erased. We pick up speed and turn down the service road.

"Ned, are you okay?"

"For - for now. I'm in hiding, remember? But like - I don't know how much good it'll do..."

"Ned," I whisper. "What is going on?"

"What's wrong?" Mr. Stark asks on the comm.

"Something is wrong with gordito," Deadpool replies. He jerks his chin towards me. "Are you going to let us in on your little drama now? Or maybe we can all have a sleepover and talk about it over Shirley Temples after the mission."

"This is serious," I reply slowly, feeling a dreadful premonition throbbing in my belly. That same kind of high-octane pulse you feel right before you faint on a roller coaster that goes just a little too spinny.

"I know it's serious," Ned moans.

"I'm on the comms with Mr. Stark right now, Ned. We're right in the middle of a mission."

"Peter, what the hell is going on down there?" Mr. Stark asks.

I turn off my comm. "Tell me about part two, Ned."

"You're offline with bug boy," Deadpool informs Mr. Stark. I can almost hear Mr. Stark screaming at me for breaking protocol from Deadpool's ear.

"So, part two, it's like, having a fake meeting with some big wig, presenting my findings, and make an argument for use of said findings, and they said the topic of my argument was supposed to be how to lure a wanted criminal with the material I had. It's obvious, isn't it?"

"I don't get it, Ned…"

"They're trying to use Karen's distressed yelling to lure Frank Castle somewhere."

"Okay, so, I get why they want the Punisher, but why are they bothering you?"

"Don't you think I'm freaking out about that already? I'm totally freaking out, bro!"

"Ned, this is too much. We gotta get you out of this."

"I know, that's why I called."

"Okay - okay. Stay hidden. Don't move till we finish our thing, it could get messy, and we're literally - a block away. So please, stay low. I'll come get you right after."

"Aye aye, Spider-Man," Ned replies, sounding relieved. "See you in a few."

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 ****END OF THE SNEAK PEAK 2 OF THE SEQUEL!****

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 **I will post more progress again in the future to continually reward your patience with me :)**


	32. Checking in and Sequel Sneak Peak III

**Hello my sweet readers,**

 **I really wanted to just check in with you all and see how you are all doing with the state of the world right now. Please do use this opportunity to review on this "chapter" (sneak peak III) to let me know how you are doing. Are you isolating? Are you safe? Are you healthy?**

 **As you know I'm a cancer survivor so I take all of this super seriously, and while I'm still working, it's only 2 days a week and I am not interacting with patients, I just work with insurance paperwork. Other than work, I am isolated at home! My family and I are healthy and safe. I was just telling my friend that all of this craziness we're going through feels like the world after Thanos snapped. It seems like half the world is missing. Remember how Natasha had video conferences with her friends from around the world like some sort of zoom call? Trying to have some semblance of normalcy?**

 **We're holding our breath waiting for things to change and it's just... stuck? In this weird state of existence? And we may have trouble handling it because we're used to these movies and such skipping all the hard times and jumping to a "5 Years Later" title card. That's why this feels so strange. It's before the smash cut. My friend replied that it's even more relatable: Those that aren't working and stuck at home are "blipped" out. When we come back to the world it'll be weird and it will take getting used to. Essential workers, medical care/first responders etc, they are still around, struggling with the new way of life, and they are aging the full 5 years. I feel like we can't be the only 2 Marvel fans in the world that feel this way, haha.**

 **It's giving me a lot of time to write, and while I am prioritizing original works right now, I'm also working on Avenge the Departed II, which is going to be called: AVENGE THE FALLEN. So far ten chapters in, between 2-5 'Point of View' sections in each.**

 **THERE WILL BE A THIRD BOOK, AND I'VE ALREADY WRITTEN SOME CHAPTERS FOR IT. It will be called: AVENGE THEM ALL. So this will officially be a trilogy, and part 2 will deal with a lot of the fallout from book 1, as well as build up anticipation for some of the threads and villains of book 3.**

 **Again, please let me know how you are all doing, and please enjoy this third sneak peak as a little quarantine gift to you during this crazy time.**

 **With love,**

 **Pip**

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...

 _ **Peter Parker**_

I can't help but swing my arms a little as I walk. I am about to see my girlfriend. My girlfriend. I still have a hard time believing that I'm in a relationship - like, dating someone - a girl - officially. Someone as cool, and beautiful, and badass as Michelle Jones.

It seems like it's a little too outside of my league; someone like her. And yet she not only likes me, she admitted to falling in love with me. While my life was still hell.

We sort of missed out on that initial romance thing, me being afraid for my life most of the time, and she had a lot of homework. Typical obstacles.

But then it was summer. I got reacclimated to normal life. Moved into Avengers tower. We spoke, hung out, and ate together regularly. She started looking for internships, and I hovered, emailing her job postings and showing up at her bedroom window with an iced drink and a kiss.

"You've got to stop popping into my bedroom window like this," she finally hissed one night, "When I tell my parents we're dating you can start using the front door."

But she hadn't told her parents yet, and she was being vague about why. But I had a feeling it had something to do with her parents hardcore personalities. After all, they were the ones who pushed her into nursing in the first place.

Today, I'm meeting MJ for coffee and studying. She's back in school for the fall, and still looking for a good internship. I promised - I promised - I wouldn't distract her while she read her thick, horrible textbook on the human nervous system. Distraction meaning kissing her neck while it's bent at a bad angle, as she tries to process the information and slinks lower and lower in her chair.

But I didn't promise I wouldn't distract her when she took a break, got up for water, or paused to look at her computer, or…

"Psst."

My spider-sense sings under my skin with shrill hesitancy.

I'm not being threatened - but someone is dangerous.

I whip around and look around me.

Typical crowded Manhattan street. Tall, reflective windows in the older brick buildings bouncing the bright, ice-cold autumn sun.

"PSST!"

I zero in on the direction of the sound. A portly man with a duck-dynasty type of beard, a beanie, sunglasses, and dark, mustard-colored Carhartts. He's reading a newspaper and sitting on one of the cement-block barriers between the sidewalk and the edge of a small park with old growth oaks towering overhead.

I shiver in my jacket, not recognizing the man. I walk towards him stiffly.

"What?" I ask shortly.

"H-h-hey, Peter," says the man, lowering the paper ever-so-slightly.

I know that voice.

No.

No no no no…

...

 ** _Bucky Barnes_**

I've been getting to know one of Shuri's many, many assistants, a man close to my age named Josef. He's very kind. He doesn't look at me like I'm a petri dish.

He asked me if I had any interest in American baseball. I said I did, and he began to explain in great detail how the last Red Socks game went. I didn't have the heart to tell him I was all about the Yankees, being born and bred in New York. Boston can kiss my ass.

"I'm longing to get out there and play some of it myself," Josef went on with a laugh, "But my friends, you see, they prefer our own sports, nothing from the colonizers."

"Ahah," I had laughed uncomfortably. Longing. Only the first trigger word, and one that would unlikely be followed by another one.

But my brain went into a strange overdrive. My ears began to ring at such a high pitch, I wondered if there was a chemical spill nearby.

"Josef," said Shuri. "Did you check the batons we sent out for testing?"

"Ewe," he replied, "I'm afraid we have more work to do before our King's upgrade is ready for ulwandle. Too much salt, I think. They all come back - rusted! I cannot work with them in that condition."

The ringing increased, even worse. Then I wondered - maybe I'm not just having a ringing ear because of some boomer World War flashback shit, despite the fact I'm completely entitled to it. Maybe the ringing is my brain - resetting.

Erasing itself.

"Stop," I said out loud to Josef. Holding up a hand for a moment. "Stop."

Shuri looked at me bewilderedly. "You don't have to shush him, I asked him a question!"

The ringing got louder. I could barely hear her, all I could see was her mouth moving. I take a step back from both of them. "I don't want to hurt any of you," I mumbled, almost incoherently, stumbling backwards.

"James, you are not going to hurt anyone," Shuri assured, taking a step closer. She snapped her fingers at Josef, and with a knowing look, he stepped away from us both. Everyone else was ceasing their work and looking up, some curiously and some with fear.

"Stand back," I snarled at her. "Don't come any closer."

"You are not going to hurt me," scoffed Shuri. "You're just - having a little migraine, maybe."

What if the pitch increases till all I hear is this - this screaming in my own head and have no memory of who any of them are? What if I have some embedded order from Hydra that I don't know about? Some dormant command to murder T'Challa should I ever find myself here? To kill anyone who comes too close and feels threatening enough?

How can I protect them?

I need to protect them. I need to protect them right now.

"James, you look right here now!" Shuri waves her arm, trying to catch my attention. "You're not the Winter Soldier any more. This is all just noise. Memory noise. You aren't going to hurt anyone here."

The ringing grows completely unbearable. It's too loud. Any second now and I'll forget why I'm here, or who my new friends are.

Not going to hurt anyone here, huh? What if I just take myself out of the equation?

I turned and with every ounce of power I could muster, every enhancement and hard drive of muscle and bone, I plunged my head into the soft stone wall of the lab.

I heard the crunch of rock and briefly tasted sand and blood before losing consciousness.

...

 ** _Wade Wilson_**

"Christmas came early, hot stuff," I throw down a file of surveillance photos onto the conference room table. Bruce and Natasha lean forward to take a look at the pictures.

I grin cattily at Agent Madani. "You should come over more often."

"Why?" she asks suspiciously.

"Because files don't usually show up on our doorstep like this. It usually takes a lot more butt licking."

Madani shakes her head with disgust. "Nothing just shows up on a doorstep." She taps her finger on one of the pictures that slid loose. "This is from the hard work of my ground team. They went over the bodies of your felled Russian mobsters with a fine tooth comb. While they had little to identify them in the grander scheme of things, one of them had an address saved on the Maps app on his phone. And these," she opens the folder, taps another picture, "Is what my people have been photographing for the last six hours."

"I'm sorry you hate Christmas," I answer, sitting down across from them.

"Tony Stark said he'd be here," Madani reminds me. "Why isn't he?"

I throw up my hands. "Am I my Iron Brother's Keeper?"

"He's with Peter," Natasha answers dryly.

I give her a look and swipe my finger across my throat. We should use our Fancy Names in front of the Feds.

"And how is Spider-Man doing?" Madani asks casually.

"Wow, lady, you couldn't even wait a day before checking the index," I scoff. "Just skipping the foreplay and getting right to it."

Agent Madani relaxes in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach. "That's why it exists. So that we don't have to waste our time." She looks at Natasha. "How is he?"

Nat raises an eyebrow, a brief read trying to determine if Madani is sincere or not.

"Don't worry, Nat," I say. "I already looked up her likelihood of inevitable betrayal and how many seasons she's signed up for. And my bullshit meter is quiet right now."

"Thank you, Wade," Nat snaps at me, returning her attention to Madani. "He's not okay. Stark is taking care of family first. Otherwise, he'd be at this meeting right now."

Madani checks her watch. It's 9 PM. "I don't mind waiting."

"Won't your houseplants miss you, though?" I ask.

She doesn't bother responding. Wow, she's harder to get a rise out of than I thought she'd be. She seems like a woman with a lot of buttons. She might as well be the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. Or the world's most time consuming jacket.

...

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 ****END OF THE SNEAK PEAK 3 OF THE SEQUEL****

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